#my crown upon your head fic

[beananacake]

My Crown Upon Your Head

Ch. 1

Prince!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: When an arranged engagement between Prince James of Brookland and Princess Natasha ushers the discovery of the existence of a marriage contract between you and said prince, you readily agree to a divorce for the sake of the kingdom. At first, you had been willing to be separated from Prince James but as you spend more time with your husband, you begin to feel things that are forbidden. It does not help your case when James shares the same sentiments. As you combat the emotions that excite and scare you, the discoveries you make of the people that surround you make you suspect there is something else at play...

WC: 3.9k

Warnings: period-typical misogyny, 18+ for delicate issues, typos, not beta'd

A/N: Hi! Welcome to my first Bucky fic! If you think you've read this before... uh, no you didn't ;) Likes, comments, and reblogs makes beananacake a happy writer lol

Once upon a time, there was a girl who accidentally married the prince.

That would have been a story to be told for ages, you thought ironically to yourself. It would have made for an everlasting tale by the Brothers Grimm; storytellers whom you had met during one of your travels to the distant land of Prussia with your diplomat father. They were an odd sort; old men whom you would never have thought to have been the authors to the short tales you loved reading as a child. Their stories were rather macabre despite the hopeful beginnings. After all, not every Once Upon A Time ended with a happy ever after.

I wonder how they would have written my story, you mused rather distractedly as you stood before the King of Brookland.

You had been summoned to the palace the moment your ship had docked into the kingdom’s port. There was no preamble as to why you were wanted; they had only loaded you unto the carriage and had been presented to the monarch without so much as a change of clothing. You were not vain but it would have been more preferable to be wearing the proper attire when meeting with the king. Instead, you met him in your leather breeches, a silk dress shirt, and a waistcoat that you had fashioned from your father’s old vest—all of these articles of clothing were scandalous by themselves, but not as scandalous as knowing the reason why you had been summoned.

“You see, my son is set to marry the Grand Duke’s niece but we find ourselves in an unusual predicament,” said King George II of Brookland as he stood from his throne.

You had no voluminous skirt to tuck your hands into when you were nervous. Instead, you only clenched them at your sides, clutched into fists to calm the nervous quake about you.

“My secretary has found a marriage certificate binding you and my son in matrimony.” The king said disdainfully as he looked down on you. He was a classically handsome man if a bit gaunt and pale. His blue eyes were kind yet piercing. His jaw was strong and covered with a beard that was white as it was thick. His voice rasped with every words as though he labored them out. He was an old man, stooping because of his many years but it did not dampen the regal, commanding aura he had about him.

“You had been married to my son for two decades.”

Twenty years? You would have been but six years! Surely, there must have been a mistake.

You took a discreet step back, afraid of the silent fury in his voice. You had no idea of this marriage to the prince but your lapse in memory only seemed to make the blaze of anger in the king's eyes grow.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I have no idea of this certificate of which you speak.”

A harsh scoff sounded from the man who stood beside the throne. Your eyes flitted to the Grand Duke and the cruel severity from him made you step further back. His features told you he did not belong to Brookland; rather than possessing the strong jaws and high cheekbones of the Brooks, he appeared more foreign. The Grand Duke—an honorable title reserved only for the king’s advisers—had his lips drawn tight, his brown eyes beady as he regarded you.

“His Majesty will not tolerate insolence, child. I suggest you answer in truth.” His words, while spoken calmly and simply, chilled you. His eyes betrayed nothing nefarious but there was an air about him, of something that made him unfriendly to you. Then again, it was his niece the prince was promised to and you had unknowingly married said prince.

“My apologies, Grand Duke,” you bowed your head as you lowered into a curtsy. You could not bear to look him in the eye for one more time.

“Tell me your name again,” commanded King George.

You kept your head low as you said your name.

“If you are who you say you are, then it must be you who signed this contract.” The soft unraveling of the scroll drew your attention and you looked up as the king thrust it before you.

There it was. Your name, written by the hand of a six-year-old child. It was a mess of letters but it was discernible enough for anyone to read your name. Beside it was Prince James’s inscription, no better than yours but still enough to be recognized as the name of the kingdom’s future monarch.

The royal seal of the Barnes of Brookland—a crowned lion standing atop a shield that bore the coat of arms of the family—brought about a memory that had long been buried until that moment.

You watched closely as your father, a scholar and one of Brookland’s diplomats, poured hot wax on the space between where he and another had signed. It was a rich blue with gold flecks, the colors and symbol of your country’s opulence. You were always curious as to why he did the ritual of laying his ring on top of the molten wax after signing the papers. You asked him.

“It is a promise, Y/N,” your father had replied as he took of his signet ring and placed it sigil-down on the paper.

“Like friendship, papa?” you had asked in your small, excitable voice.

He chuckled fondly, caressing your cheek as he watched you in the candlelight. “Of a sort. This paper is a memory of that friendship with our country and this country’s king.”

“Can I do it with my friends?” You watched with curious eyes, taking note of where he had written his name and the fact that it must be sealed with wax and his ring.

“Of course, little one. I shall have to teach you how to write your name so you can sign your promise.”

You beamed, eager to employ this newfound knowledge and practice of sealing your promises of friendship.

You were unable to read as well but it was no matter, your papa will teach you. It was your memory that was prodigious and you remembered his process. First, he took parchment from his sheaf of papers. He signed his name on the first empty space, then the other man did as your father had. They shook hands. Your father poured hot wax and placed the sigil on the promise and placed it on different sheaf of papers.

It was simple enough for you to do.

You recalled that moment you had done it. You had visited the palace with your father and he had let you play around the grounds while he conducted business with the other diplomats of the kingdom. Prince James had been but a boy then, a little older than you were but not old enough to talk affairs of the kingdom. He had been in the garden alone and you approached him with the idea of trying your newfound way of sealing friendships. You had not realized that you had plucked a marriage certificate from the Great Study because, truly, all of your father’s contracts appeared one and the same to you and you had assumed as much for all the papers. You innocently scrawled your name, taking good care in spelling it right as your father had told you. The prince had done the same and with your father’s ring, you sealed your—and the prince’s—fate.

“You recognize it then,” asked the king as he snatched the offending paper away.

“Your Majesty—” The apology did not slip past your lips.

“You may look innocent but I sense ambition in you, girl,” remarked the adviser. There was a hint of malice in his words and you flinched.

“Grand Duke.” There was a warning edge to King George’s tone. He turned to you once more. “You recognize this certificate?”

You steeled yourself, standing erect as you drawled out slowly. “It was not my intention to bind myself in marriage to the prince, Sir.” You swallowed. “My father introduced contracts to me as a way of keeping friendships. As a child of six, I did not know of diplomacy or the legitimacies of binding contracts nor the numerous different kinds of it. I only took the paper as I had assumed all were one and the same. I signed my name and had the prince sign his and stamped it the ring my father had me hold for safekeeping. I did not know that any agreement signed by the prince and sealed with the royal stamp would be legally binding even at so young an age.”

The silence that followed echoed in the throne room. Your boots scraped against the marble floor and you were once again reminded that you were unfit to be meeting with the king in such a state. Women, even common folk, were expected to be in dresses and long skirts. You shunned those articles of clothing whenever you were traveling the waters, finding breeches, shirts, and practical boots better than the full hoops of the skirt that often got in the way whenever you walked about the ship. The sailors were used to seeing you in this garb and did not find it offending at all that you were not dressed like a lady but to the eyes of the king and the Grand Duke and perhaps the many a footman you had passed before entering the throne room, you looked downright scandalous.

“We will keep you in the palace, Y/N.” proclaimed the king, which made you turn to him once more.

Evidently, the news shocked the Grand Duke as well because he turned to the monarch with his question plain on his face. King George held up a hand to his adviser and sat on his throne before answering.

“We will keep you in the palace until we find a solution to this impasse.”

“Of course, Sir,” you replied because what else was there to say?

“Surely, you understand the delicacy of this matter. I would not have you proclaiming to the people that you are the new princess—or rather, had been their princess for near two decades already.”

You were offended at his insinuation but did not show it. You had no right to show indignation towards the king.

“In here, you are contained. You shall still be free to roam the palace grounds as you please but we will not have you out of it. If so, you shall have a chaperone and we would be informed of your itinerary.”

You only nodded. You were a creature of adventure; the very notion of being confined within the palace grounds was comparable to have your wings clipped. But I had started this problem and I must pay for my childish ignorance, you thought to yourself.

You were set to sail with your father once again to the return to the distant land of Wakanda. It had been your life; traveling from one kingdom to another. You had learned of cultures and languages, of food and dance, and everything it was that you could ever beheld. Your home kingdom might be tiny and beautiful but the world beyond held more possibilities that you never once thought was within your grasp.

Oh, how you would have wanted to walk your father’s footsteps as Brookland’s new diplomat. You learned from all the travels you have done; your father had made you his apprentice and had taught you everything he knew of his trade. People still underestimated you. It was unheard of for someone of the fairer sex to be an ambassador, so you had never tried. You only acted as an adviser to your father within the confines of his office walls, honing your innate talent of persuasion and diplomacy.

Sadly, your dreams were once again stalled.

“Your Majesty, since I am common folk, my presence in the palace will arouse suspicion.”

The king nodded. “It is all being taken care of. My son's cousin will be arriving soon and you shall pose as a guest with him. You are merely early in your arrival.”

“Of course, Sir.” You paused and looked down to your clothes before turning back to the monarch “There is also a matter of my trunks, Your Majesty. I have arrived empty-handed.”

King George looked at you from your head to your boots. “Are all your clothes thus?”

You shook your head. “No, Sir. This is what I wear when I am traveling the seas. I do not find it practical to wear a skirt whilst I am on deck and the tides are high.”

“Ah, yes. You travel with your father.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He nodded. “I cannot allow you to leave the palace so soon after we have talked. Write him a missive for your trunks but do not mention your business here.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You may go.”

“My King,” you genuflected at the monarch before doing the same to the Grand Duke. “Your Grace.”

You stepped backwards, keeping the front of your body towards the king as you slowly went out of the throne room. Once the doors had closed, you heaved a great sigh and straightened, only to knock against someone behind you. You turned and gasped, rooted in place, at the sight of the man before you.

It was the prince. Prince James Buchanan Barnes. Prince James with his dark hair and fiercely blue eyes and features that told you he truly was the son of Brookland. He had grown handsome over the years, which shouldn’t come as a surprise as his father was a handsome man as well. James—were you allowed to address him as James?—had a firm look on his face, a bit reminiscent of his father’s gaze as he watched you. Broad of the shoulders and fit of the body, his muscled legs were encased in tight white breeches and his coat brought out the color of his eyes. They were as blue as the sea and as clear as the sky.

Your husband. What an absurd notion!

“Careful,” he said as he held you by your arms. His voice was deep and smooth and it caressed you in places that you never thought were possible.

You ogled at the prince. As much as you wanted to  look away, you cannot. His gaze held you, searching your eyes and quite frankly, perhaps even your soul. Even if you had nothing to hide, you were scared of the things he would find there. Like the matter of your being bound to him in marriage.

Your heart skipped a beat. It had nothing to do with your being nervous of him finding out about your accidental ploy of being married to him but more of the fact that you had never been looked at like how he was looking at you. Your appearance was unkempt and you had not been able to properly tie your hair but something about his stare made you feel like you were much more beautiful than you truly look. He made you feel emotions not even the best of the world could offer and for the life of you, you had no idea why.

Your knees buckled and you bent down in an ungraceful curtsy. It did not escape your notice that your arms were still caged by his fingers. The heat from his hands seeped through the soft cotton of your shirt into your skin and you gave a shaky breath. “Your Highness, my apologies. I did not see you—”

“James. I thought the hunt would have run you ragged.” You heard the king say as the doors open behind you.

Princes James gave you curious smile and you realized he had no idea of who you were or why you were there. Would it change if he knew? You wondered absently. Your eyes still lingered on his lips.

“It is all right. No need to apologize.” he said.

You turned to his eyes as you rose to your full height. His hands left your arms and the imprints that he left warmed you as you were ushered away.

…

…

…

Prince James Buchanan Barnes was, for all intents and purposes, an apprentice. His whole life he was schooled to be the next king of Brookland. He was taught to be a soldier to know of battle strategies. He had masters who taught him philosophies and history. He was knowledgeable in three languages because his parents had insisted he learn two more so he can converse with more people. He was, essentially, an apprentice monarch. And a king, even one still learning the trade, needed a queen.

Which brought him to the matter at hand. His father had promised his hand to the Grand Duke Zemo’s niece. He had never set eyes on her before and was only sent a portrait that he and his father had looked at and had deemed her beautiful. Her country was powerful and Brookland—albeit teeming with natural and mineral resources—needed to ally with a kingdom for its protection. Marrying a princess from a rich and powerful country was the correct step in ensuring the best for the kingdom. It was what his father had done with his mother. It was fortunate that his parents had fallen in love despite the circumstances.

“I was not aware Princess Natasha was arriving today,” James said as he pried his eyes away from your retreating figure.  

It was unusual for him to see a princess not in their finest clothes, either, especially one from a country that was advertised to him as bountiful and rich. He had no qualms, however, about seeing you in such a state. Clad in what was commonly considered as undergarments, you were a small person than what the portrait had let on. You came only until his chin and even then, you still seemed tinier. Your legs were enclosed in buckskin leather, much like his own when he went hunting, and it made him wonder if maybe you hunted as well. You wore a dress shirt beneath a curious piece of waistcoat that you had tucked in the waistband of your breeches and it accentuated your rounded hips and ample bottom. You wore none of those heeled shoes he knew ladies favored. Instead, your feet were clad in flat boots that went up to your knees and showcased your perfect calves. Albeit you were dressed inappropriately, it did not escape him that you were dressed practically. And sensually, he thought to himself.

You were beautiful in the portrait but in person, you were exquisite. The painter failed to capture the smattering of freckles across your nose or the hint of lightness on your hair. There was a small scar on the side of your cheek that he did not notice when he beheld your picture; perhaps the painter found it wise to not include the blemish lest it deterred him from making an offer of marriage to you, even if it was not his idea to be wed to you. Be that as it may, the scar endeared him to you. It made you appear more tangible, more… real, and nothing like the uptight version your uncle had painted you to be.

“Heavens, no. I would never associate myself with that—that thing.” Zemo said, looking at your back in what could only be termed as disgust.

James raised a brow. So you were not the princess. “I would assume that thing has a name and a purpose?” When his question was met with silence, he turned to the king. “Father?”

“Walk with me, boy.” was all the king said. He waved his hand away to his adviser. “Thank you, Grand Duke. We do not need you in this talk.”

“Your Majesty. Your Highness.” Zemo bowed as King George led James away.

He followed his father down the Hall of Portraits. He remembered his lessons of his family’s history, of the important people who had changed the laws and the lives of many. King Alphonse. Queen Mariam. Queen Winnifred, his mother. He knew it best not to dwell on his mother’s untimely death around his father, whom he knew was still mourning her. She had left them so suddenly and they both had not been the same ever since. It did, however, brought them even closer.

“James,” his father started as they arrived in the garden. “There is a matter I wish for you to know.”

Rarely did his father venture this far into the gardens. Queen Winnifred had kept a small alcove for her personal use, locked away but still kept clean by the royal gardener. James often went there when he needed time for himself. His father did not.

“Yes, father?” James asked, watching his father closely as he sat.

Since his wife’s death, the king’s health had deteriorated rapidly. The doctors had deemed it a great depression, one the king will brave in a few months’ time, but James knew his father would never recover from the death of his beloved. Every day he feared his father would leave him so soon after his mother had. The mere idea frightened him.

“You are promised to Princess Natasha,” King George said, to which James nodded. “But there is a small matter we must address before you wed her.”

He raised an inquiring brow. “Does she not want to be wed?”

“She wishes to be wed to you, James. However, we find ourselves at a loss for something you have done some twenty years ago.” He patted the space beside him on the bench and the prince sat.

Twenty years ago? What could he have done at eight years old for his father to remark on now?

“Are we bringing up old sins, father? Because if we are, I do not remember what I had done at eight years old that would bear remembering.”

“My boy,” the king clasped his son on the shoulder. It was a fatherly touch but also that of a king, a touch that brooked no argument.

“You are already married.”

James frowned. Married? Surely, he would have remembered the festivities that came with the union.

“Married? I don’t remember meeting my bride or signing a marriage contract.” He turned to his father. “Are you well, father? Perhaps we should return inside. The sun—” The sun had killed his mother. He did not wish the same for his father.

The king waved his hand away. “I am well, son. Do not worry about my health.” He looked sternly at the young prince. “You are not married to the Princess Natasha but you have been married for two decades now.”

“Father, I must ask you to speak plainly. I had been married for two decades? And not to the princess I was promised? Then who am I married to?”

“Do you know anyone by the name of Y/N Y/L/N?”

James’s frown deepened. He readily denied but stopped short.

Y/N. The name sounded familiar to him. And then he knew. He remembered; the girl he had invited inside is mother’s secret garden and had played with under his favorite tree. Familiar eyes that lit up as they smiled at him, the same ones who had looked upon him just a few moments before. You had brought a paper to him—a promise of friendship, you had said—and he signed it with no hesitation.

“She is that girl you thought was the Princess Natasha, my boy.”

James looked back to the door they had came through, as though he would see you appear if he called your name out loud.

“She is your wife.”

[fushitoru]

私はスター ! masterlist

note: works indicated with a star (★) contain/will contain explicit smut. proceed with caution, heed all warnings, and remember⸻don't like it? don't read it!

series.

the season of thorned roses ⸻ gojo x reader ★

dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, duke gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

long-fics.

infect me with your love ⸻ gojo x reader ★

you have always existed in gojo satoru’s shadow. he is a physics prodigy, a person that everyone endlessly admires for his intelligence and charisma, and you hate him for taking the spotlight that you deserve to share with him. but it all changes one day at 5:07AM at your starbucks job when gojo barges in, ordering ridiculously sweet drinks and posing existential questions. is there more to gojo that meets the eye, and is it linked to the vigilante swinging around New York City? (19.7k). part of kinktober 2024!

one-shots.

gojo satoru.

rainy days and brownies ★

you wake up for some soft moments with your boyfriend that involves brownies (turned freaky) (2.2k)

seperation anxiety! ★

clan head satoru begs you to attend a meeting with the higher-ups, but not for the reasons you thought.

the importance of skincare ★

worried about your boyfriend's skin health, you're set out on a mission to teach him about skincare, sitting him down and rubbing products over his face while seated on his lap. only, he convinces you that he has something to teach as well about facials. just not the kind you expected (1.4k)

trouble ★

an unexpected tutoring session with your bully satoru gojo leads to somewhere...unexpected (4.2k)

sukuna ryomen.

so i know who i'm looking at! ★

on halloween night, you get a strange phone call from a man with a distorted voice right as you're chilling while babysitting yuuji. you get an ultimatum: perform for him, or risk your and yuuji's lives (3.1k). part of kinktober 2024!

toji fushiguro.

finish her! ★

you will have to face one of the most formidable wrestlers in history in your next match: toji fushiguro. but don't be confused, this isn't normal wrestling⸺no, it's nude wrestling. and winner gets the spoils of the other's body! (extended ver of my toji drabble here) (3.8k). part of kinktober 2024!

multiple (seperate)

i can't stop looking at his d—d—d—d—FACE! ★

jjk men as overused p0rn/h3ntai plots! (4.1k)

back to the kitty, cause she's kinda pretty! ★

jjk men as overused p0rn/h3ntai plots! (pt 2) (3.5k). part of kinktober 2024!

[pathologicalreid]

i'll be home for christmas | s.r.

in which you, Spencer, and your toddler prepare for what will hopefully be your first Christmas together as a family

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: just a little family grocery shopping. domestic!spencer, chemist/professor!reader, the spencer reid dilf agenda, toddler tantrums word count: 889 a/n: this fic is basically my christmas present for lia. this is her errand fic which has literally been on my list of fics to write since october!!! i am home for the holidays!! so the title felt appropriate

The holidays were starting to get overwhelming. It was no longer enough to take Christmas Day off with a container of store-bought Christmas cookies and text Spencer in whichever state he’d been called away to. No, it was much more serious than that. Thanks to your daughter.

Now, you took the entire winter break off, along with the majority of your coworkers, and spent every day with your daughter. You weren’t sure who found the prospect more exciting—you or her.

At only two years old, Leah was the one in charge of this particular trip; she led the charge through the diary aisle of the grocery store, hands on her hips as she carefully inspected the canned whipped cream. Her brown eyes squinted at the labels while Spencer hauled a gallon of milk on the bottom rack of the cart, and you checked it off of the list.

You watched her carefully, toeing the line of helicopter parenting with the way you kept her in your line of sight. If it were entirely up to you, she’d be sat in the cart, but she’d thrown a tantrum when you tried to sit her down upon your arrival at the store, and you were carefully choosing your battles this holiday season. “Do you think she needs glasses?” You said to your husband, watching as she moved in even closer to the glass doors.

Leaning over your shoulder to check the list, Spencer hummed before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, “We can make her an appointment,” he offered. “It looks like she might just be too short to see the labels,” he frowned at the shopping list that you precariously balanced on the handle of the cart, “We passed the butter.”

You looked behind you to see the boxes of butter—already picked over by other holiday shoppers—at the beginning of the aisle, “Oh, would you...?” Your voice trailed off as Spencer had already begun backtracking to the butter, looking over the selection as if it was the biggest choice of his life.

“Mama,” a little voice called, Leah had made her way back around the cart, holding a red aluminum can in her little hand. The little glint in her eyes spoke for themselves, Can we get this?

Smiling down at her affectionately, you crouched down to grab the whipped cream from her hand, tiny fingers red from the cold metal. Whipped cream wasn’t on the list, but this was a battle you’d gladly give in to. Peeking over your shoulder for Spencer, you found him slightly retreated from the wall of butter, holding a box in his hand with his phone pressed to his ear, “Uh oh,” you murmured, bending down and picking Leah up so you wouldn’t have to worry about her wandering off.

The toddler followed your gaze, seeing her father on the phone, eyebrows pinched together. “Uh oh,” she echoed, resting her head on your shoulder. You checked the time on your watch, knowing good and well enough that it was nearing her naptime, but you’d wanted to do the holiday grocery shopping while the majority of the population was in the middle of the workday.

You so badly had hoped that Spencer would be home for Christmas this year, but the look on his face didn’t seem promising. He’d been called away on Christmas Day for Leah’s first Christmas, and last year he’d been in Kansas through the December holidays.

Hoisting Leah up on your hip, you guided the cart away from the milk and out of people’s way, waiting for Spencer to come back. “Gotta go?” You asked, wondering if you’d have time to at least check out with what you’d managed to grab.

Surprisingly, he shook his head, “That was JJ, she was asking if we had any plans for New Year’s.” He put the butter in the cart, crossing it off of the list for you, “They only had salted, I hope that’s okay.”

You nodded silently, watching him mindfully as you exited your mild panic and returned to the present, “That’s fine.” You let Leah back down, “Okay, lovey. Next aisle,” you steered the cart over to the baking aisle, where you were sure to make a dent in your list.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asked, grabbing a bag of flour from the bottom shelf and looking at you thoughtfully.

Apparently, you wore your concern more plainly than you had previously thought, “Yeah, I just hate spending Christmas alone now, it used to be the standard for me.” You rested your chin in your hands while Spencer went through the aisle, grabbing a few bits and pieces off of the shelves, “Oh, Spence!” You called out when Leah detached herself from her legs to chase after her father.

Her pigtails—courtesy of Spencer—bounced as she ran after him, erupting in a fit of giggles when he deftly scooped her up with one arm, giving her the vanilla extract to hold as she beamed up at him. “Okay, no more walking for you,” Spencer told Leah upon their return, looking through the crowded aisle as he passed you everything he’d taken off of the shelves. “On the bright side,” Spencer said, shrugging at you as he kissed your cheek, “You’ll never spend another Christmas alone.”

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 11

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: very brief daemon cameo here. but he'll be back next chapter. please leave comments/reblogs because they really help me with the fic. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @myllovellybones

Upon Daemon's abrupt leave, the king named Rhaenyra his heir and she has since then set out to look for a suitable match. Though the crown princess was loathe to leave, you envy the fact that she is permitted to leave King's Landing at all.

There is a knock on your door. "Princess?"

You open the door and smile at the knight, "Erryk."

Erryk nods and tries to smile back at you. It is hard, considering you look like you have been crying. He tries to lift your spirits by saying, "I am flattered to know I am now set apart."

You take his arm after closing your door, "you have always been set apart, good ser."

The two of you walk off and break fast together. It is silent, as it has been for two moons now. You have not told him any stories since your husband's leave. You barely speak at all, in fact. Most of the time you lock yourself in your room and he pretends he does not hear your sobs. To say he is concerned is an understatement.

And, of course, there was another matter.

Once more, in silence, you walk down the halls, this time with him trailing behind you. You are headed for your father's office. Once there, you knock on his door, and he answers.

Erryk hotly eyes Otto before nodding in regard, "Lord Hand."

"Has my daughter eaten?" is all Lord Hand ever says, to him or his brother.

"Yes," your ward replies each time.

Erryk watches as your father takes your hand and links it in his arms. He leans towards you and gentle speaks, as he has ever since you threw yourself into the sea. He even rubs your knuckles as you walk off to the maester's ward. Yet, through it all, Erryk finds no comfort in this new found gentleness your father offers. He is deeply suspicious, but for your sake, he tries to convince himself your father has changed.

Each day, without fail, you and your father visit your maester together, and each day, without fail, he worries for you more and more.

Erryk straightens up when the door to the maester's opens. He is quick to come to your side and offer his arm as you wave your father good bye. Otto does not regard you before walking off. He never does.

You smile at Erryk once it's just the two of you. The latter asks, "how are you feeling?"

You notice the lines on his forehead, and it makes your lips flatten. You tilt your head, "same as I felt yesterday," you place a hand on his cheek, "and the day before... so do not worry for me."

"Forgive me, princess," Erryk lowers his gaze and pulls your hand away, "but such a thought cannot comfort me for you have been nothing but sad since Daemon left."

You clasp your hands together, "that's hardly his fault."

"Is it not?" Erryk questions rather harshly.

"Not really..." you offer a soft smile, "none but my brother remembers the days prior to my sadness." You chuckle under your breath, "and even then, I am aware he feeds me honeyed words"

Erryk gulps when you take his arm. He wants so badly to caress your cheeks as you bring a beaming smile to your face.

"Do not torture yourself trying to make me happy," you raise your brows at him as you lead him off, "you did not meet me happy, Erryk, and it is not your job to make the impossible happen."

You examine his expression as you make your way back to your chambers. You had hoped he could find some sort of comfort in this truth, but he looks only more worried. You sigh, "would you like to know why it is I visit the maester everyday?"

Erryk knits his brows, "I only like what you want."

"..."

"And if my lady wanted it, she would have already told me why her father brings her to the maesters daily."

You carefully mutter his name.

He stares at you for a moment, hand itching to clutch your cheeks. He holds himself back but mutters your name with such a softness, it makes your skin prick with goosebumps.

Your breath hitches and you have to look away. You huff and lick your lips, "I am with child."

He stops in his tracks.

You pull away to stand before him. You feel incredibly self-conscious as his face contorts.

"My-" he starts by then bows his head, "Seven bless you for the fortunate news," he slowly looks up at you, "congratulations."

You slowly raise your brows, "you congratulate me yet appear so frightened."

"No," he shakes his head, "I am not frightened... merely... shocked."

You aimlessly look off.

"... and perhaps... worried."

You chuckle, soft and dry, "worry will do none of us any good."

"Does the prince know?"

You look back at him. You shake your head, "no one knows."

He clenches his jaw.

"I plan to tell Arryk next," you rub your belly, "soon, I will be showing... and I do not want you to be frightened."

There is much Erryk wishes to say, much he wishes to promise you. I promise to sever any hand that rises harm you or your child. I promise, so long as I breathe, to do all I am able to assure your safety. But he says nothing because he knows you will cry. He says nothing because he can sense that you are frightened.

You begin to walk off again and Erryk wordlessly follows. You look back at him, finding him in deep thought with his gaze lowered. You turn to your fingers and fidget with them, "I did not want to announce it in case it does not last."

You can feel him looking at you.

"Even now, we do not know what the future holds."

He clenches his fists tightly, "princess-"

You turn.

"-I know it means nothing, but I believe you are stronger than you think. I have seen it, your strength... and your happiness, however small and fleeting you may think it."

Your eyes water. You reach out for him and squeeze his hand, "do not hold yourself in such low regard. Your words mean everything to me, Erryk."

You walk back to your chambers and invite Erryk inside. He remains stood by the door as you get quill and parchment. You have been writing daily two letters— one, which comes easy:

𝔐𝔶 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔢��𝔢𝔯𝔶𝔡𝔞𝔶. ℑ 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔲𝔫𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔰 ℑ 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔶 𝔴𝔢'𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔱 𝔒𝔩𝔡𝔱𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤'𝔰 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔪𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔱. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔪𝔢. ℑ 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔢𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔶𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔡𝔞𝔶 𝔫𝔬𝔬𝔫. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔞𝔳𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔳𝔬𝔯 𝔥𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯, 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢. ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡. ℑ𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥. 𝔚𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫. 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯.

... and another which takes far greater effort and attempts to complete:

𝔗𝔬 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫, 𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔯 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫, 𝔗𝔬 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔲𝔰𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔡, 𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫, 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔲𝔰𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫, ℑ 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩. ℑ 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩-𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤. ℑ 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔞𝔣𝔢𝔱𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔴𝔞𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡. 𝔇𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔡, ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔡𝔬𝔲𝔟𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔞𝔭𝔞𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰. ℑ 𝔰𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔶 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔭 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔱. ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔶 ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔶 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯, 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔬𝔯 𝔪𝔶 𝔪𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯. ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢 𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯. ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 ℭ𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔵𝔢𝔰. ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔬𝔫 𝔟𝔞𝔠𝔨, 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔣 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔲𝔯𝔱 𝔪𝔢. ℑ 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔲𝔯𝔱 𝔟𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔩. 𝔇𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔪𝔢? 𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔣 ℑ 𝔲𝔭𝔰𝔢𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔬𝔣𝔣. ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔰𝔨𝔢𝔡. ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔣𝔩𝔶 𝔬𝔣𝔣 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢𝔭𝔱 𝔞𝔰 ℑ 𝔡𝔦𝔡. ℑ 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰. ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲. 𝔉𝔯𝔬𝔪, 𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔶, 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔡𝔶 ℌ𝔦𝔤𝔥 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔰

In the end, this is what you sent:

𝔇𝔞𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫, ℑ 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩. 𝔐𝔞𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔪𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔬𝔯𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔱𝔢𝔭𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰. ℑ 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲, ℭ𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔵𝔢𝔰, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔥𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔞𝔣𝔢. ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲. ℑ 𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 ��𝔬 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔩𝔶. 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔶, 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔣𝔢.

—of course, after reading it aloud to Erryk, just to be sure it was appropriate.

Erryk has only ever assured you that whatever it is you mean to tell your husband is more than appropraite, but for once, he offers that you add something. "Perhaps you should tell him that you're... you know."

You spare him a glance as you seal your letters with wax and shake your head, "why? Do you think he would return if I did?"

No. Erryk does not hold him in such a high regard.

"If he wanted to respond, he would. No matter what I have to say, I cannot change his mind if he's already set it," you stand, "and again... we don't know what the future holds."

You were right.

Woe is you who understood the inner workings of your husband. Daemon was in the middle of chewing tough, flavorless meat when he received your latest letter. You were right about not being able to change his mind about writing to you, but you were wrong in thinking your words wouldn't bring him to write back.

It would have, that is, if he ever read them.

The prince goes to Caraxes and feeds him what remained of his food. He then goes to his tent and chucks your letter along with the rest of it. He lies down in his cot and wonders what you write to him about. He wonders if you miss his touch, then touches himself to the thought of you.

A moon passes. Though you knew neither your maester nor your father would ever trick you into believing you were with child when you were not, the truth of it all only set in upon catching a glimpse of your bare body in the mirror. You had taken a warm bath in the evening because you felt sore, and upon seeing how big your breasts had become and how your belly protruded in a way it has not, you realize why you were so sore and just how real it was that you were carrying a child.

It was terrible that upon your awareness of the changes in your body, so much started to change. You found it harder to fit into your clothes as your breasts and arms required much more space than normal. Your face began to change as well, and you could scarcely recognize your own reflection with how swollen you looked. What's worse, is that your skin began to break out with painfully deep pimples.

You knew that you shouldn't be picking at them, but you couldn't help yourself, so you did, and soon your face, your neck, and even your back was littered with red blotches. You were so horrified with the way you looked, you barely left your room.

It was then Alicent began to worry.

"Just place it there," Viserys points haphazardly from where he sat.

"Here?" Alicent places the figure near some tiny stone trees.

The king looks, "no-" then comes behind her, guiding her hand from behind. Alicent tenses when his other hand comes to her waist. Viserys moves her hand and Alicent finally places the figure. The former smiles, "there."

Alicent catches her breath as the king pulls away.

Viserys sits and continues carving out the piece he had at hand. After a few moments, he notices Alicent staring at him. He quirks a brow, "something wrong, my dear?"

"Have you heard from your brother?"

He releases his block and leans back on his chair, "no."

Alicent nods, lowering her gaze.

"Why?"

She shakes her head.

"Come now," Viserys stands, "you can tell me."

Alicent looks at him when he takes her hand. She presses her lips as she feels her heart race. Her voice trembles, "m-my sister."

He hums, "has something happened to her?"

She rapidly shakes her head, "I barely see her anymore. She stays in her room days on end."

"I see," he nods, "did she and Daemon argue before he left?"

"I-" she shrugs as the king pulls away, going back to his chair, "I don't know."

Viserys spares her a look before picking up his block.

"I do know that she feels abandoned. First, Gwayne, now the prince," Alicent sighs, "she has no one."

"She has you."

She shakes her head, "she and my brother have always been close, close in a way twins are, close in a way I can never understand. She does not regard me as dearly, I don't think."

This makes his brows furrow. He tilts his head, "that is not true. Many a man would regard you dearly, Alicent."

Her throat tightens.

"And your sister is not a man," Viserys raises a hand, "does she not like to pray?"

Alicent nods slowly.

"You might want to invite her to the temple. It might cheer her up."

The girl rubs her hands together and nods. She then curtsies and heads for the door, that is, until Viserys stops her.

The king rises and takes her hand, "eager to leave, are you?"

"N- I-"

"I don't bore you, do I?"

Alicent shakes her head, "n-no! Not at all, I simply--"

"I jest," Viserys chuckles, pressing a kiss at the back of her hand, "go to her." He rubs her knuckles, "she is most fortunate to have your affections."

Alicent curtsies again and leaves.

As she makes her way to your chambers, she sees one of your servants and calls for her. The servant girl is quick to greet the lady and Alicent notices the letters in her hands.

"Have you gone to my sister?" she asks.

The servant girl nods, "yes."

"How is she?" the red haired girl sighs.

"She... is her normal self," she nods slowly.

Alicent shakes her head, "... sad?"

"Yes," she agrees.

"Who are those for?" Alicent motions to the letters she was holding.

"These?" the girl raises, "ah... your brother and good-brother, milady."

"Oh," she tilts her head slightly, "does she write to them often?"

She nods, "everyday, milady."

"Oh," she blinks. There is something about this comforts her and... hurts her. She thinks about what she confessed to the king, how she was aware you did not regard her so dearly, and yet, there was an ache in her heart to know her sister would not seek solace in her during this time.

Alicent dismisses the servant then comes to your chambers.

The Cargyll stood outside your door greets her, "my lady."

"Ser..." she nods, "Erryk?"

"Arryk, my lady."

"Ah, yes," she lowers her head, "forgive me."

"An honest mistake," he smiles, "you are here for your sister, yes?"

Alicent nods.

He turns and knocks on your door, "princess. Your sister, Lady Alicent, is here."

"I-" she steps forward and raises her voice, "wish to invite you to pray at the temple."

Arryk turns to her and smiles. Alicent smiles back and they both wait for you to respond. Only, it seems you are really taking your time.

She begins to pick at her nails and the minutes pass. She sighs, turning to ser Arryk, "maybe she is asleep."

He shakes his head, "she does not sleep at this time. She is probably changing."

"How do you now? Do you go inside to check on her?"

"I only come inside when she needs help with something," he nods curtly, "or, if perhaps, I feel sense danger in the air."

Alicent tilts her head, "but how do you know?"

"The princess is a creature of habit. Though she is good at concealing her emotions, you can only hide so much from someone who watches you closely."

"How close do you watch her, ser?"

Arryk is taken aback by the question. It was in all accounts innocent; Alicent meant nothing more that what she said, but it did not feel such to the knight. It feels as though he was caught staring longingly at you right this moment. "W-What?"

He is thankful Alicent does not get to clarify herself because you finally emerge.

Alicent perks and deflates all at once upon seeing you. You smile at her through the lacy, black veil you have covering your face. She returns your embrace as you hug her, but she cannot help but knit her brows at you, or rather, that veil on you.

"You look well, sister," you smile, taking her hands.

She takes a moment before replying, "and you...'re wearing a veil."

Your smile flattens.

Alicent is quick to shake her head, "it looks good. Very stylish."

You contain your frown and take her arm, "I am most pleased to have you here."

The both of you begin to walk off and Arryk follows after. Alicent asks, "you are?"

"Of course!" you give her a look, "why, you are normally with the princess-" you raise a finger, "-which I do not have any qualms with. Most people dream to have a friendship that you both have. But I am glad you have a moment to spare for me."

Alicent's brows raise.

"Rhaenyra is doing better now, I hope?"

"Yes," she nods slowly, "she can now talk about the queen without weeping."

"Better than I ever was," you squeeze her arm.

Alicent offers you a soft smile.

The sight of her face brings you comfort, "I have missed your company, and your pretty face, my pretty girl."

She chuckles.

"You inherited our mother's beauty and left none for me—"

"That's not-"

"—especially none for Gwayne."

Alicent chortles and you giggle in response.

Arryk smiles, feels his heart clench at the tender display before him. Thank the Seven for Alicent Hightower.

"You should join us, sister," Alicent squeeze your hand, "Rhaenyra enjoys your company as much as I do."

You shake your head, offering her a kind smile, "I would not want to infect you with my bitterness."

For a moment, Alicent wants to ask if that was why you were wearing a veil, but she decides against it.

Arryk stood a few paces away from you as you prayed in the temple. Both you and your sister were on your knees with your hands clasped and eyes closed as you recited your prayers.

"Lastly," Alicent mutters, "we pray for Daemon's safety-"

You open your eyes and turn to your sister.

"-that he, as well as the Velaryons and their fleet, may find swift victory so that they may all return to their families."

You unveil yourself, "seven hear us."

"Seven hear us," Alicent ends, bowing her head for the final time.

You try not to think of the acne staring back at Alicent when she turns to you, but her initial reaction to seeing your face makes it quite hard. She does you a favor of not saying anything regarding it however.

You squeeze her hand and whisper, "there is something I must tell you."

She gives you a solemn expression.

"I am with child."

Her eyes widen and her lips part.

"Of course, father knows, but I have not told anyone, save my wards," you shake your head, "it is why my skin is littered with blemishes, and why I do not wish to come out of my room."

She frowns, calling out your name softly.

"Not even my husband knows, Alicent," you shake your head, "and I did not tell him because-" you eyes begin to water, "because the chances of a miscarriage is still high."

Alicent can feel your fear, your worry.

"But gods, I feel like I will go mad if I keep this in any longer," you break down into a sob.

She immediately seals you into an embrace. Arryk is immediately alerted by the sound of your cries. He observes for a moment but does not act, knowing you need this moment with your sister.

Alicent feels her chest tighten, not because of how tightly you embrace her, but because of how evidently you needed this hug.

"I want to go home," you mumble.

She nods, "I'll take you back to you-"

"To Oldtown," you sniffle, taking in her scent. She smelled like your mother and it made you wonder if your presence ever felt comforting for anyone, or if you just inspired distress, "this is not my home."

"Sister," she tries to look at you, "you are married to the prin-"

"And where is he?" you blurt, pulling away.

Alicent frowns at the redness of your eyes and the wobbling of your lips.

"I feel nothing but emptiness here," you place your hand on your belly, "I do not want that emptiness to manifest within me-" you shake your head, "I do not want my bitterness to kill my unborn child."

Alicent's cheeks instantly become wet.

You wipe her tears away and frown, "will you try and help me convince father to send me home?"

She stares at you, "sister..."

It is an impossible ask, and you both know it.

"Please," you brush her red locks, "he has always favored you."

Alicent does not know if that was true. She lowers her gaze and shakes her head, "I... I will try."

Your lips wobble as you watch worry manifest on her features. Guilt begins to choke you, "forgive me for asking much of you, my baby sister."

Alicent shakes her head quicker then steels herself away, "no. I-" she nods, "I want to help."

You squeeze her hands, "do not force it if it is too hard."

Later that evening, Alicent builds her nerve and visits the Lord Hand's office. The moment she enters the room, she knows she's made a mistake, for he was in a sour mood.

"What?" he snaps, head in his hand.

It was too late, however. He will be cross if she says she's changed her mind, he will be cross if she lies and presents him with something unimportant, and he will be cross if she tells him what she actually came here for. She takes a breath, might as do it, "it's regarding my sister."

Otto immediately perks, eyes squinting, "what of her?"

"She... asked me to ask you if she could... continue the rest of her term in Oldtown."

The man tilts his head, eyes widening in disbelief, "I beg your pardon?"

"She sai-"

"She told you she's carrying?" he points a finger.

Alicent tenses. She gulps, "yes."

"When?" he snaps, coming to a stand.

"J-" she watches her father walk over, "just today."

Otto's face is hard as he recalls how you begged him not to make a spectacle of your childbearing, lest your body fails you. He thinks there is something to be said about how you were now willing to divulge this information with Alicent. He raises his brows, "who else knows?"

Alicent feels cornered. It does not feel right to divulge this information.

"Did she tell Daemon?" he places his hands on her shoulder.

She stammers, "I-... I do not know."

Otto examines her daughter. He thinks she knows more than she lets on but does not pursue it further. He sighs, caressing her cheek before pulling away, "you know, you both know, I will not allow such a thing."

He walks back to his desk and Alicent takes in a deep breath.

"If she is here, then I can see to her needs."

"She needs the warmth of home," she says.

Otto sighs as he sits down. He motions vaguely to his child, "this is her home. She's married to Daemon Targaryen."

"But the prince is not here," she steps forward, "she can return when he does."

He tilts his head. He knows her boldness comes stems from her love from you. That is why he says, "and do you really think she can return if she leaves?"

Alicent's face falls. It is incredibly subtle, but Otto catches it nonetheless.

"If your sister were to go to your brother in Oldtown, what do you think the Rogue Prince will say?" her father leans on the desk, "you bore witness to how he acted when your sister came to Gwayne when he was knocked off his horse at the tourney. Do you think he will enjoy the fact she retreated to him in this time? Do you think he will care enough to retrieve her once he returns from the Stepstones? Or will he squander in brothels and sire a thousand bastards?"

She begins to pick at her nails.

"And what of your sister's child?" Otto raises a brow, "what if she loses the babe during the journey to Oldtown? What if she loses the babe once she's there? Who then is to be blamed?"

"I-"

"And what if the baby does not inherit a single Valyrian trait?" he leans back on his chair, "what if the babe looks like a Hightower and Daemon decided to accuse her of infidelity?"

"But she would never-"

"I know that," Otto raises a finger, "you know that. Does her husband share in this knowledge?"

"..."

"It would look like she left to hide her sins."

Alicent's heart begins to pound.

"Do you understand the risk, child?"

She opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

Otto sighs and stands again, "I understand you mean well."

Alicent is at the brink of tears as her father approaches her again.

"But there is no way for your sister to go to Oldtown," he ushers her to the door, "without risking much." Lord Hand opens the door and gives his daughter one last, "not unless the king allows such a thing."

Alicent takes in her father's features. He smiles softly at her. Her stomach feels uneasy.

"Go to bed, Alicent," he strokes her hair, "your sister is mine to worry about, not yours."

The door closes.

It was a shock that Alicent came to you the next day, telling you that you were set to leave for Oldtown at noon. You were overjoyed and sealed your sister into the tightest hugs, "I can't believe you convinced father!"

Alicent rubs your back, softly muttering, "...I really didn't."

"Oh but you did," you chuckled in between sobs, "I owe you my first born's life."

She pulls away and shakes her head, "d-don't- don't say that."

You frown at the worry that over her face. You shake your head, "very well. Forgive me for burdening you with such a thought."

So it was that you left that day for Oldtown. You were grateful the king graciously allowed you to bring both your wards along with you. You would have been less so, had you known Alicent requested it specifically, even less had known it was not actually your father that she had convinced but the king himself, and less than that to know she was able to do so because she had been visiting him oft since the queen's passing. You would outright abhor it had you known Alicent's relationship with Viserys was borne from your father's encouragement.

Your unawareness of this made you deeply cherish the moment you saw your twin brother's face. You were exhausted from the travel, much more than usual, and yet an energy burned within you when you saw Oldtown's heir.

Gwayne outright laughed and pointed at you as you sobbed on your way over to him, "what in god's name is on your face, twin?"

You felt nothing but affection from his blatant mockery.

He coos as he pulls you into a hug once you are close enough, "now, now. I cannot have a princess weeping in my arms." He is relieved by the warmth of your being. He has not been embraced so tenderly since you've been separated. "Not an ugly one at least."

"I am with child, you miscreant," you mutter against his chest.

Gwayne's rubs your back as his face hardens with worry, "I know. Father wrote to me."

You sniffle and pull away. You glare at him, "yet you still dare to be mean to your beloved sister?"

"Spare me your tears," he says rather genuinely as takes in your wet face, "your cry-baby attitude will get nowhere with me."

Your lips wobble at the sentiment.

Gwayne actually starts feeling bad, but then you release a soft laugh.

"You fucking rat," you scratch your eyes as you break into a giggle.

Your twin gasps, turning to your wards who were approaching. Lord Hightower raises a brow at them, "are you aware your lady has a vulgar mouth on her?"

"Please, Gwayne," you shake your head, "I'm a fucking princess."

The laugh that leaves your brother is ugly, loud, and real.

Yes, your unawareness made you cherish every moment you spend in Oldtown. It was still hard to be with child; there were the food aversions and cravings, soreness, sickness, and mood swings that haunted you, but the spirit of emptiness remained in King's Landing. Now that you were free from the scrutiny of court, from the politicking of your father, there was a lightness within you that you had not felt in a long time.

You recounted the things you and Gwayne used to do when you were younger, then caught yourself imagining your child doing the same. Suddenly, you didn't feel so terrified by the thought of bringing a child into this world. The Cargyll twins can attest to the shift in your demeanor.

It was a shame that a moon's worth of happiness disappeared in an instant all because of a single letter.

Gwayne comes to a stand from his spot upon seeing you react so physically to whatever it was you were reading. The Cargyll twins, who were breaking fast with both of you, stand to attention as well.

You clutch your chest as your other hand crushes the letter you just read.

"What is it?" your brother asks, "what has happened?"

"It's Alicent," you feel your chest tighten.

Gwayne comes to your side, placing a hand on your shoulder. He is alarmed by your tension, "sister, sister. Breathe."

You clutch your belly. It's much pronounced now, and you know it adds to your struggle to breathe.

"Breathe," your twin repeats, "that's it."

You manage to calm yourself, but soon tears begin to fall from your eyes, "Gwayne."

"Yes, I'm Gwayne," he squeezes your shoulder, "what's happened to Alicent?"

You shake your head and look up at him, "she's getting married."

The man pulls his head back. His brows knit, "married? To whom?"

Your breath hitches as you push yourself up to a stand, "to the king."

Whatever confusion he had regarding your reaction instantly dissipates. This match reeked of politicking, politicking from the Hand of the King. Gwayne clenches his jaw as helps you up. He feels the same emotions he did upon learning of your own betrothal. History was repeating itself, yet now, your brother's chest is tighter. He had always believed your father wouldn't be so cruel to willingly give you to the Rogue Prince, but now... he realizes this was something he wanted to believe.

Gwayne calls your name out as you begin to walk off, "where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" you snap.

You despise every second spent on the way back to King's Landing. You are exhausted when you return and you are loathe to see your father waiting for you.

Otto calls your name and greets you with a smile. His glee is genuine. He is wholeheartedly pleased to see how much better you look from your visit to Oldtown, "I am glad to see time with your twin has livened you, my girl."

As true as that may be, it was your anger that livened you in this moment. You despise him as he takes your cheeks and kisses your forehead. You destest him as he grins.

"I have missed you."

You wish you hated him more as not to be so affected by this. Your nostrils flare, "where is my sister?"

His face falls slightly at your complete ignorance to his greeting. He pulls away, "getting ready for her nuptials."

You stare at him. The burst of affection he had for your wanes enough for him to recognize your look, your glare. It was written all over. Anger. Defiance. Hurt. It could not be contained.

"Am I not enough for you, father?" you quip under your breath as your eyes begin to water.

Otto looks around then takes your hand, "let us speak insi-"

"Is it not enough?!" you break free from his hold. You seethe, "—that I am about to deliver you a royal grandchild and you should require my baby sister to do the sa-"

"She is not a baby," he quips.

You clench your jaw, "she just turned ten and-"

"She is in ripe marrying age."

You turn away from him. You are about to walk away, and he knows it. He cannot stand it.

"She did this so you could go to Oldtown," he snaps, pointing an accusing finger at you.

You give the Hand one last look before going to your sister.

Alicent is equally overjoyed and worried by your appearance. Just as she assures you that you didn't have to come all this way, you silence her by telling her, "it is not too late."

Your sister is frozen in her spot as you explain the plans you have for her to escape her marriage with the king. She can tell that you have thought about it greatly, considering the speed and detail in which you speak it. The only thing that manages to quiet you is the way she says, "it is done."

"W-what?"

"I am decided," Alicent shakes her head as her eyes begin to water, "do you not notice how your plans to save me demand your suffering?"

Your brows knit, "I will suffer no more than I already do."

She sniffles as she speaks your name, "when mother died... I watched you writhe in pain. None but Gwayne ever offered you true comfort."

"And you!" you clutch her cheeks, "you foolish girl! Do you not understand, I wish to free you from-"

"We are all of us destined to be a prisoner," Alicent mutters as tears fall from her eyes, "us, more than most. If not the king, I will be married off to another man I do not want."

You clench your jaw, "Ali-"

"At least if I am queen, I can save you from Daemon."

Your heart stops. You rest your forehead on hers, "you stupid little girl."

Your words burn her. She watches as you pull away, finding the tears staining your cheeks.

"If you are doing this for me, and you marry him... I will never speak to you again."

Her face drops.

"Did I not tell you that I should be the one to do such things for you?"

"Sister," she takes your hand, "... I am stronger than you."

"... oh."

"I can help."

You lower your gaze and nod. You pull away from her and walk away.

Less than a fortnight later, your sister marries the king and is proclaimed the new Queen of the Seven Realms.

[manmuncher777]

I am BEGGING YOU to write something about Aegon being literally OBSESSED with the reader, like to the point that it’s dangerous.

a/n - I love this idea, I think it matches Aegon’s character so well. I felt super motivated to write this so thank you my love. I hope you enjoy. xoxox

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆ 𝘼𝙚𝙜𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 - 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 ⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

𝐍𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬

NOT proofread lol. If you have sent a request I promise I will get to it, one fic takes me a while to write so ill try to get to it asap. LOVE YOU

𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 - 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞(𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐩), 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

Aegon craved you. Aegon needed you, if you weren’t around, he would loose his mind.

For a few years now you had been one of the maids that Aegon had, starting in the lower ranks before being the personal lady to the king. Of course Aegon had others, but you were different, you were special. You saw the king for what he truly was - a broken young man. And instead of hating him for it, or offering him some fake pity. You helped him.

You could understand why he so craved the support, you had witnessed his family interactions, and heard the gossip that would travel through each servant of the crown. You understood he had a complicated relationship with his family, and a lot of external pressures to deal with. Every encounter that one would expect to be private was known by every maid, cook, cup bearer and servant. So after having heard so much over the years, you felt empathy for the king, aware of his lack of someone to talk to.

So on that fated night when you came in to change the kings bed sheets and found him crying, thats all you were, just someone to talk to. Aegon had never had this before, never had such a simple kindness been shown to him. And for that he was ever grateful. This greatfulness soon blossoming into something more. A deep sense of caring, a deep obsession. This would soon form a routine for you. Not long after that night he told his mother he wished for you to be his main lady, of course his mother had worries about this, but accepted his proposition. Most evenings instead of completing your nightly chores (Aegon had this duties bestowed upon someone else) you would sit with the king in his chambers, and listen. He would treat you with such respect and kindness that it was enjoyable for both of you. You would share his wines - some of the finest you had ever tried- and eat his food (he would have the cooks prepare his extra dinners and fruits to snack on because he wanted you to have them). Some nights were filled with lighthearted talk, some with laughter and drinking, others were filled with deep emotion. All of which you enjoyed.

“hello Issa gevie hāedar” he would say to you each evening with that handsome smile on his face. my beautiful girl

He would watch you enter with a glint in his eyes, each time you would knock in the same pattern so he knew it was you. That was a sound he soon began to adore.

You never understood valyrian, but it warmed you to know he gave you nicknames.

“Hello my king” you would blush in response before sitting on the edge of his bed, beggining your nightly conversations.

Aegon never failed to ask you about yourself also, but you rarely kept on the subject. You knew he was the one who carried the heaviest burden of all. You wished to relieve some of that pressure.

Aegon loved how shy you were, it was so much fun for him, to watch you blush under his gaze. He loved it, loved the effect he had on you. So of course he couldn’t just leave you there sitting so far away from him, soon the sitting on the edge of the bed each night became lying next to him, both sat up with pillows behind you. That soon became him resting his head on your lap, looking up at you. And every now and then, it would end with you holding each other. Nothing scandalous. Just enjoying each others embrace.

Soon Aegon got bolder, wanting to watch you become a blushing mess around him. He would reach up slowly towards your face, brushing some strands of hair behind your ear before gently caressing your cheek. Of course your skin would burn with the sensation of his hand touching you for hours after it had actually occurred. As if his touch awakened something inside you.

You cared for the king greatly, but you weren’t a fool. You knew that if anyone found out about what went on each night you went and visited him - despite it being nothing overly scandalous - you would be put at risk. You knew it wasnt a good situation to be in. There were already rumours that you were sleeping with him, some of the other maids even being bold enough to ask you if you were sleeping with the king to which you had aggressively denied. But it did nothing to stop you visiting him. There was just always a voice in your head warning you not to get too close.

But there was that part of you, whenever you saw him that would swoon over how handsome he was, how beautifully his hair was frame his face, and how his violet eyes would sparkle in the candle light. how good he smelled and how nice it was to feel his muscular frame next to you. Everything a young maiden craved in a man.

Aegon would even go as far to gift you smalls things, flowers being left in you quarters, books you would like and beautiful ribbons for your hair. Aegon had even had a necklace made for you, a beautiful delicate chain with a singular dragon on it. as a symbol of him.

a symbol that you were his.

So when he found out that you had requested the night off as it was your birthday, and you were allowed it, he was furious. Of course he wanted you to have a good name day, but you could’ve spent it with him, he wouldve got you anything you desired. In fact you didn’t even mention to him it was your name day.

He sat waiting in his chambers for you as he usually does, only to be met by one of the older maids who would serve for him.

“Where is y/n?” he snappily asked the woman who had only just graced the king chambers

“In the town my lord, celebrating her name day”

Not saying another word he stormed out of his room. He was angry, not at you of course. never angry at you. He merely wished you had told him, he wouldve joined you, had a gift made for you. Anything.

The wooden doors of the servant quarters smashed open with aegons force, stopping the movements of all inside.

“which one of you knows where y/n is this evening?” he asks, scanning the room for anyone who looks like the have the answer

“Her uncles tavern your majesty, the red anchor” one piped up

Once again in silence he stormed out. The red anchor, he had probably been there before on one of his evening out, he couldn’t remember. no matter, he would find it.

Determination flowed through the young prince. He couldn’t understand why you wouldnt tell him. Honestly he didn’t even know what he was going to say when he found you, but to have a night without your presence already felt crippling for him.

His steps echoed on the castle walls, each step carrying him closer and closer to his destination, you. As he passed through the halls, he was spotted.

“My king, where are you off to in such a hurry tonight, the hour is late” Ser Arryck asked from his post.

Aegon not even bothering to stop responded to the man with haste “I have some business to attend to in the city, I wont be gone long.”

“The hour is late my king, allow me to accompany you” Arryck was walking too now, having to match the kings pace that didn’t show any sign of stopping. confusion clear on his face about why he was determined to go alone.

“No, I don’t need any assistance. I will go alone” Aegon was getting more and more angry as the seconds passed. Angry that he couldn’t see you, angry that Ser Arryck was trying to stop him from seeing you.

“My king, my apologies but I must come with you into the city, if it is found that I allowed you to go with no protection I could be expelled from my position” Ser Arryck wasnt wrong, kingslanding was a dangerous place, and selfishly he feared that if something bad were to happen to the king he could be worse than just expelled, it put his life on the line. He has sworn to protect his king. But Aegon wasnt feeling rather empathetic in this moment, Arryck couldve been on fire and it still wouldnt have stopped him.

“Fine then ser, as you king I command you that I will not be accompanied this evening. Is that fucking clear?” Luckily for Aegon this conversation had allowed him to get closer and closer to the door, but it didn’t stop the rage at Ser Arryck’s questioning. If Arryck did come with him, then Aegon risked putting you in danger also, he understood that for the moment no one could be aware of the unique relationship you shared.

“Your majesty please-“ Ser Arryck had made the fatal mistake of touching the king. He had stopped Aegon in his tracks by gripping his shoulder. Aegon couldn’t explain where the flash of rage came from, but it gave him the strength to twist around, landing a punch directly of Arrycks nose. The punch catching the knight so off guard that it sent him flying backwards. His armour clashing against the stone as he fell. But Aegon didn’t stop there, he mounted Ser Arryck - landing multiple brutal shots to his face, aegons fists becoming bloodied from the mans face.

How dare he try and stop the King from seeing you. How dare he try and stop Aegon from being with you. No one was every going to take you away from him.

Aegon only stopped when he was sure Arryck was unconscious. arrycks face was bloody and bruised, already swelling with the punches it had just recieved. And without a second thought Aegon left him there.

Finally, he thought. finally out of the castle and one step closer to you. He swiftly grabbed one of the cloaks he would leave stashed outside of the doors incase he wished to make a speedy night time trip into the city. Yet with even the hood pulled up over his head, it couldn’t even block out the thoughts of you. you were like a drug and Aegon was going through sever withdrawals. He missed everything about you, he missed the scent of roses you would bring into his room with you, he missed the way you laughed, he missed the sound of you saying his name. He missed being able to glance down and see the dragon necklace sitting perfectly presented just above your tits.

He couldn’t believe it, hes always thought of you romantically, thought of how you would look on his arm, as his wife. But hed never felt this way about you, you had always been with him. so when you were finally taken away from him, it sent him crazy.

He could feel himself getting more and more overwhelmed the further he went into the city. To any other onlooker he looked drunken and crazed. In truth he felt like he was going through some kind of frenzy. His head was snapping and pinning in each direction, scarred he would miss you in the crowds of people, his steps becoming messy and unbalanced due to him not looking ahead.

His mind was playing tricks on him, making him think that he had seen your beautiful silhouette on the side of the street, only for it to be a shadow and nothing more.

With everything going on around him his mind started to race, kingslanding was a crazy place at night. The street performers displaying their talents with flames in al different colours flying about the place, a man on stilts in the distance making his way though the crowd. Fortune tellers on the sides of the streets calling aegons name as he passed the. Groups of drunk people, fighting, fucking and laughing. He couldn’t take much more of this. What if you were out here and in trouble, what if you were with someone else.

Aegon couldn’t take much more, he grabbed the nearest person to him which turned out to be a drunken old woman who was shouting with a bunch on gamblers at a card game

“Where is the red anchor?!” He had the woman by both of the shoulders, demanding in her face for her to tell him

“Your stood in front of it you fucking blaggard.” she said unhappily wrenching herself from him grip before returning to her jeering at the ongoing card game.

Aegon could scream. If only you knew what effect you had on him. He was certainly about to show you. There it stood in clear letters on the sign hanging above the tavern “The Red Anchor” with the corresponding symbol underneath. Without waiting another second the tavern doors were shoved open by the king. Who was eagerly scanning to find you through the crowds of busy drunk men.

He had been here before, many times. He recognised the layout. He couldn’t yet spot you so deeper into the pub he dove, walking much slower now into the main bar area, hoping to arch a glimpse of you

And as if the Gods had answered his prayers, there you stood. In centre stage of the room, there you were stood by the bar, talking to the man on the other side. Your uncle Aegon assumed (And hoped he was right).

You looked so different, so free. You wore a beautiful dress that complimented you well, it was simple but the nicest you could afford. The colours and style suited you perfectly. much nicer than the uniforms you had to wear at the castle. Your hair was down and flowing freely unlike when you wear it up at the castle. Aegon could tell you were in your element. You looked ethereal, a smile gracing your features as you chatted with those around you.

Aegon was about to make Hi way over to you when out the corner of his eye he spotted it. A fat drunk man making his way over to you, predatory look in his eyes. Aegon watched as the happy girl you were moments ago now shrivelled at the mans advances. You clearly having turned him down because the mans expression changed, him placing a hand on your shoulder and pulling you closer to him.

He was touching you, he was touching what belonged to Aegon

Zȳhon gevie hāedar. his beautiful girl

Wishing seconds Aegon was next to you. The hand that was previously resting on your shoulder was now pinned against the wall with a dagger through the palm. Aegon’s dagger.

Rage filled Aegon as he slammed the man into the wall, pinning him there tightly, staring into his eyes. The man screamed out in pain, only silencing a few of the near by people, the rest of the tavern paying no mind. Aegon could tell by the mans face he was scared. good.

“Don’t ever lay a hand on her again” He gritted out in the mans face, eyes wide and bloodshot. Aegon ripped the dagger from the mans hand causing him to let out another agonised scream before silencing himself due to the feeling of the same blade being pressed up to his throat.

“Do you understand me” The cowards in front of Aegon merely mustering a nod yes to his question.

god Aegon wanted to kill him, Aegon wanted to cause him so much pain. To drag it out and make it as gory as possible. How dare he lay a single finger on what belonged to the king. How dare he make you uncomfortable and try to damage something so perfect. Aegon couldn’t remember feeling a rage like this, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. He had never felt so protective over you before. It took everything in him not to push that blade into this scumbags neck, but he didn’t want to do that in front of you. So with a sigh he let the man go, who quickly ran out of the tavern.

You were still yet to recognise Aegon as he still had his hood up, so it was a shock for you when this hooded man grabbed you by the arm and lead you through the busy crowds of drinkers and locked you both in a storage room.

“what in seven hells - Aegon?!” once the man finally pulled his hood down to reveal himself, you were shocked. Aegon was your saviour, the one who so violently apprehended the man previously bothering you. But why, how on earth did he know you were here. why was he here?

You didn’t actually get to ask him any of these questions before he trapped you in a searing kiss. He pinned you up against the wall - the stone of the wall biting into your back slightly. You moaned into the kiss as the Kings hands held onto you waist. His body was pressed into yours as he kissed you hungrily. All the many days of wanting, the house spent obsessing over you and the feelings of tonight’s events all put into one kiss. And you could feel it, feel all the emotions - hunger, lust, desire maybe even love. You kissed him back wiht just as much passion, the kiss as fulfilling for you as it is to him. One of your legs now wrapping against his wait, hid rigged hand gripping your thigh. Pushing himself into you with a light groan. Your hands found his hair, gripping at the silver strands as he tongue enters your mouth.

Finally he gets to taste you. He could taste the ale you had been drinking on your tongue. He broke the kiss only for a second to look at you. Gods you looked perfect. Your lips now pink and plump from your kiss, hair slightly dispelled and dress begginging to bunch up at the sides. Your chest heaved slightly with a light pant as you tried to catch you breath. Your cheeks coated with a dusting of blush. You were the image of beauty. He could still se your shy nature on your face but was sure you were a lot more confident tonight.

“Aegon…What are you doing here.” you whispered, your leg still wrapped around Hi , his face mere inches away from yours.

“I couldnt take it anymore. I must have you, I must call you mine. No one else will ever come close to you again.” he confessed, hunger in his eyes as he speaks to you. His frame towering over you as he watched your eyes widen at his words

“Aegon-“

“Tell me you want this too gevie hāedar. Tell your king what you need.” he whispered, lips brushing against your ear. beautiful girl

You were silent for a second, no longer. And in this second thousands of thoughts flashed through your mind, what were you going to do after this? what would be the consequences? But those thoughts were clouded with want, and there was nothing in that moment that wouldve stopped either of you.

“I want you Aegon.” You whimpered, completely at his mercy.

This was everything the young king had dreamed of and more. His beautiful blushing girl looking up at him, begging for him. Needing him like he needed her and who would he be to decline such a polite little thing. A smirk graces his face before his lips are on your again. His tongue invading your mouth. You moaned again louder this time as you could feel his hardness pressing into you.

When you were back in the castle he would take his time with you, exploring you with his hands, his mouth. UNtil he had every inch of you memorised. You were his now and no matter the consequences, everyone was going to know it. You were untouchable with his favour. But until he could get you back in the castle, he needed you right now.

He pushed the skirt up, bunching it at your waist with desperation as he kissed at your neck, nipping at the skin lightly just to get those beautiful noises you made. He would never be able to forget how you sounded. His toungue licking and sucking at the sensitive skin while his fingers brushed over your already wet cunt. He cold feel it over your underclothes, and couldnt hide the chuckle that left him when you moaned so sweetly.

“Are you enjoying yourself Byka mēre?” he questioned, and you could hear the smugness in his voice. You could only bring yourself to nod. Your head already fuzzy. little one

“Oh my dear, don’t tell me you’ve already gone quiet, I’ve hardly even touched you yet” his face now back in view, smirking at you. His fingers now working their way past your underclothes - gently brushing through your folds. You gasp at the feeling, innocent little eyes begging for more.

“Tell me, has anyone ever touched you like this before?”

“No, my king” Gods, he felt his cock throb in his pants, what a naughty thing you were using his title like that. Maybe not so shy as he thought. He would be lying if his heart did jump at the idea of being your first. He felt it was right, he would be the only man to ever touch you in this way

“Good girl” he whispered, before pushing one of his fingers into you, watching as your mouth hung open in pleasure. Slowly he began to pump him finger inside of you, before taking another and gently pushing it inside. You were glad for the busy night in the tavern because you couldnt control your moan. Your head lolled back against the stone and your hands gripped aegons forearms tightly, squeezing him. You hadn’t felt anything like this before, it was amazing. With every thrust of his fingers Aegon’s palm came into contact with your clit, the sensation jolting through you, giving you goosebumps all over. You whined and moaned, unable to do anything else but take it as he watched you, smile on his face. He was proud to be the one that left you crumbling beneath him. Your leg hooked around his waist for support, you worried your legs would give out. A strange sensation began to build in your stomach as Aegon kept the same torturous pace, listening to the sounds of your we cunt as his finger would leave you hole briefly to play with you folds, seeing you cry out at the teasing.

“Feels so good Aegon, please don’t stop.”

“I wouldnt dream of it my love.” he says, completely true. All he wants is to give you what you deserve, the pleasure that you deserve. He can feel you tightening around his fingers now, he can tell your close

Your whole body is on fire with pleasure, not only at what his finger are currently doing to you, but the whole situation, his handsome face smiling down on you as you come undone for him. You cant control the moans coming from your mouth as the feeling grows

he leans down right next to your ear and whisper to you, “let go for me Issa jorrāelagon”. my love

And that was all you needed. All you could think to do in that moment was scream his name as you came all over his fingers, the feeling far more intense than you expected. Black clouded you vision as his fingers never stopped, coaxing you through your orgasm. You barley had enough time to catch your breath before he was kissing you, pulling himself free of his trousers and lining himself up at you entrance.

He waited, looking for you to signal to him you wanted this. you nodded and he sheathed himself inside you. The slick from your orgasm allowing him to slide in with ease.

You both moaned in unison as the feeling, both being so close to each other finally. And he was about to show you how much he craved this. Aegon couldn’t hold off long before he was pistoning inside of you, his pace hard and fast. The feeling of you being so tightly wrapped around him causing guttural moans to leave him. Gods you felt amazing, better than anything he imagined, better than all the nights he used his hand while thinking about how good you would look on his cock. His imagination falling short of this moment.

A slight sheen of sweat coated your skin, your tits basically bursting from the top of your dress as his cock pounded your tight hole. Once again the necklace he gifted you taking pride of place on your chest. Your eyes rolled back so beautifully, struggling to stay on him. Your moans consisting of his name and a string of curses.

All you could do was tell him how good he felt. Good being an understatement, you could basically feel him throbbing inside of you. He was big, stretching you out so perfectly, hitting a spongy spot inside of you that had you seeing stars. When his pelvis connected with yours, it would brush against your clit. The pressure against the bundle of nerves causing you to tighten around Aegon. Which made him release the most delicious sounds you had ever heard.

Aegon looked down, watching where you both connected, this moment was surreal, all of the anger and stress from earlier now melting away each time he plunged into your soaking cunt. He watched himself slip in and out of you, his hard cock coated in your wetness. Already he could feel himself nearing his end, he wasnt surprised, all these days spent dreaming about you had him riled up more than ever.

One of the hands that was gripping your hips so tightly travelled down between you both to rub at your clit, the squeal you let out not going unheard by Aegon.

“So good for me my love, you have no idea how long ive waited for this.” he huffed out “so beautiful”

Your legs were quivering and you were glad you had him ther to support you or your legs would have failed you, the same feeling building in your stomach began, only stringer this time. The stimulation from his finger and his cock was almost too much for you to handle

“My king!” you squealed out as his thumb drew quick circles on your sensitive bud.

“I know little one” he muttered to you sweetly as you feel apart for him once more. Your orgasm hitting you even harder this time. Clenching around Aegon so tightly that he couldnt hold off anymore, his hips stuttered before he bottomed out inside you.

You could feel him throb as his seed filled you. Both of you left panting for breath, staying as you were fore a moment, with him inside you. He kissed you once more, much gentler this time.

“you are mine now Issa gevie hāedar” my beautiful girl

[minus-plus-zer0]

Tattoos

♡ Genre: Fluff ♡ Pairing: Bakugou x Reader ♡ Tags: Established relationships, aged up

Many Japanese establishments didn't look too kindly to those who publicly wore tattoos, so Bakugou never thought of getting one. He's always surprisingly straight-edge like that. But you often wondered to yourself what Bakugou would look like with tattoos running across his biceps and forearms, or even against his back. It wouldn't hurt. He'd look great leaning more into his 'bad boy' aesthetic.

One day, when you two were at home together, you pulled out a sharpie and snuck up on him while he sat on the couch. Naturally, he eyed you with great suspicion.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he said, immediately on guard.

"Nothing," you said, sitting down next to him and pulling off the cap.

"You're fucking doing something!" he cried. "You're definitely doing something."

Bakugou got defensive, ready for any kind of horrible assault you could unleash upon his pure, innocent self.

"Relax, Katsuki. I just wanna see your arms."

"Perv." He perked up with a smirk. "'Course you wanna see my arms. You always wanna see my arms."

You pinched his cheek and he wriggled out of your grasp. "Could it kill you to be humble for once? I'm not a pervert, I just thought it'd be super cute if you got some new tattoos!"

"Hold it!" He grabbed both of your wrists. "What the fuck are you gonna draw on me?"

"Oh honey, I didn't think that far ahead yet. But trust me, it will be very pretty and very, very you!" You nuzzled his nose.

He glowered at you, unmoving after your nose assaulted his. But he couldn't say no to you after that eskimo kiss, it was so cute it could've been illegal. You knew this and weaponized your cuteness regularly.

"Fucking fine," he said, freeing your wrists from his iron grip. "But only the arms. And I'll be watching you." His eyes narrowed into slits.

"Who me?" You looked at him innocently and totally oblivious to whatever could've made him suspicious of you. "Don't worry Katsuki, I'll be gentle..."

"Sure you will."

You soon got to work, your ideas soon taking form. Bakugou adored how the artsy side of your brain worked on his body. Regardless of the quality, he enjoyed seeing you could decorate his arms with your vision. Without you pranking him or drawing anything absurd, this felt a little intimate.

Your hands moved quickly, sharpie running across the hard sculptures of his bicep and forearms. Your black designs accentuated his muscles, and your non-drawing hand loved feeling up his arms as you curled up on the couch beside your man.

Bakugou just watched you. Less like a hawk, and more lovingly. You looked so pretty with your head tilted down, focused and deep in thought. He kissed the crown of your head just to distract you. You ignored him and persevered.

"All done!"

Your design was simple yet long, curly in all the right places. It really emphasized all the right contours of his muscles. Bakugou flexed his arm and turned it around, checking it out.

"Not fucking bad," he said. "Seriously thought you were gonna prank me again."

"I couldn't pass up seeing you with some tattoos," you said. "You'd look hot with tattoos all over."

"Perv." He poked you on the nose, giving you another lopsided-grin. He cocked his head. "You just wanna draw all over me, is that it?"

"Aw come on, can you blame me? I'm a little artist."

"No, I think you got the right idea. Gimme the sharpie, I wanna draw something myself..."

(I'm in a writing rut so I haven't been posting a lot lately but I will post more fics within the upcoming days!)

[soft-girl-musings]

Salt & Pepper

Moon Knight System x GN!Reader

cross-posted to ao3

tags: rated T for teasing, domestic fluff, author does not condone touching people's hair without permission, no use of Y/N

wc: 1,078

fic summary: Marc, are you familiar with the term "silver fox"?

A/N: i might have a problem lol

_____________________

“Put. It. Down.”

Marc Spector does not startle easily. So when he nearly falls from his perch beside the bathtub, you’re surprised you have to steady him.

“Jesus, where’s the fire?” Marc picks up the towel and small cardboard box he’d dropped because of your outburst.

Shifting your focus, you zero in on the latter: hair dye, just as you’d suspected.

“So this is what you get up to when I’m away?” You tut, cradling his temples and shaking your head. "What happened to you?" 

"What? Nothing, I'm-"

"-I wasn't talking to you," you sigh, resting your forehead against the crown of his head. "How long has he been treating you like this, you poor things?"

“Ha-ha.”

You release his face to study it. "But seriously, how long have you been dying your hair?”

 “... For a couple of years. Started to turn gray from stress a while back, and I guess it never stopped.” He fidgets with the loose edge of the container.. “You really never noticed?”

You take the box and set it beside him. “You hid it well.”

You’re not judging him for dying his hair, it’s just… surprising. Marc’s never been one to fuss over his appearance, as far as you could tell. When you first saw his closet, you’d half expected it to be lined with the same outfit ten times, like in a cartoon. Most days, “dressing up” means adding a jacket or blazer.

 “Since when do you care? About your hair, I mean.” 

He shrugs. “I’m not gettin’ any younger, honey.”

“Neither am I.” You kiss the bridge of his nose. “You got a problem with that?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Goes double for me, don’t you forget it.” Leaning in, Marc tries for another kiss, but you duck and grab the hair dye before turning away with a mischievous smirk.

“Gotta keep you honest,” you wink and dart out of the room before he can catch you.

_____________________

"Love?"

"Hm?"

"Might fall out if you keep playing with it like that.”

You’d been standing behind Steven for the past couple of minutes, meaning to check in on his preparations for his morning tour but had gotten distracted. Very distracted.

“Sorry,” you sigh, your fingers leaving the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck and trailing down to his shoulder. “It’s just… hm.”

Your conversation with Marc must have taken root: over the past few weeks, you’ve noticed the hair that had been dangerously close to another round of boxed dye abuse steadily turning lighter. A subtle blend of silver strands mix with the darker curls that frame his face, making his hair shine a bit brighter in the light of the desk lamp.

“It’s like starlight,” you finally state, leaning in to rest your head against his.

Steven sputters and puts his book aside. “Starli- that’s a bit much, yeah?” His brow furrows, but there’s no denying the smile tugging at his lips.

“Not if it’s true,” you contend. You adjust the reading glasses that had slid down his face and tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “It’s a good look on you.”

There’s no denying the heat rising to his cheeks when you talk. “This– you don’t–” Steven caves and sets his book down, hopelessly flustered. “Either go away or get over here. Cheeky.”

He makes room for you to settle into his lap, which you giddily accept. Your hands sink back into his curls and he shivers as you scratch his scalp.

“Did I ever tell you I had a thing for my professor, once upon a time?”

“Oh my days–” 

You’re not sure who kisses who, but you’re certainly not complaining. Neither is he.

_____________________

The time apart has been agony.

You check your phone for the fifth time this evening. They’ve been gone for what feels like months (it’s been weeks) handling some business in California, of all places. Marc said he’d call when they were on their way home, meaning no news is sad news.

You’re pulled from your pity party by a knock on the door. It’s late, and you’ve already signed for your dinner delivery. Slowly, you get up and grab the bat you keep by the entrance (with a sock slipped over the end per Jake’s advice).

The knocking continues, getting more urgent. You take a deep breath and look through the peephole. A large brown eye stares back and you yelp, dropping your bat. The unmistakable boom of Jake’s belly laughter mocks you from behind the door.

“You’re hilarious,” you groan, standing the bat back on its head and unlocking the door.

You’re ready to lay into him when you open the door, but you’re stunned into silence. Jake’s smile is highlighted by silvery stubble, dusted with black. He adjusts his cap as his dark eyebrows raise in mock surprise.

“What, no hello?”

You tear your eyes away from his jaw. “Hm? Oh. Hi.” You open the door wider for him to step in. “Marc said you’d call first.”

“No fun in that, is there? Besides, you looked ready to handle some trouble.” he shrugs off his coat as you lock the door behind him.

“Trouble, yes. Nuisance, debatable.” You sidle up to him and drape your arms around his waist. You place a kiss on his cheek; it’d be impossible for him to not notice how you let yours drag along the rough line of his jaw.

“I missed you too,” he laughs again. “But man, is it warm in here…”

He tosses his cap and it takes everything in him to not lose it when your eyes widen at the sight of his hair, now more gray than black and curls longer than you’ve seen them before. You’re too enraptured to be embarrassed at your obvious loss for words.

“Your hair…” You reach up to touch it, but Jake grabs your wrist.

“Tsk, tsk, you threaten and barely say a word to me, then go straight for the goods without so much as a ‘please’? What happened to decorum, hm?”

“You fucking tease,” you huff. “...please?”

“Well, since you asked nicely–” Jake can barely finish his thought before your lips are on his, your hand tangled in his starlit hair as soon as he lets go.

“I take it we should cancel Marc’s haircut?” he murmurs as you catch your breath.

Your free hand grazes the scruff on his cheek and you grin. “I wouldn’t complain if you did.”

_____________________

A/N: marvel you cowards give us gray-haired moon knight

ty for reading <3

event tags:@moonknight-events @spacecowboyhotch @juneknight

addtl tags: @mrs-lockley @lunar-ghoulie @shadystarlightgentlemen @casa-boiardi @nerdieforpedro @queerponcho (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)

[astraystayyh]

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess : i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter i. to forget

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me.

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You're floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth's very core between your fingers. You stir from your ethereal orbit, longing to break apart from the celestial lights, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light- your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment- an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach. 

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?  

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames. You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you. 

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine. He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume. 

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield of oblivion, ricocheting off any touch of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket. 

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea. 

"Okay," you concede. 

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the frozen façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the frigid truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known. 

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.” 

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table. 

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates. 

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face. 

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions; eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care. 

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you. 

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you. 

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door.  “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads. 

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump of despair. 

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips. He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again. 

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it. 

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas. 

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun. 

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield. 

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye. 

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him. 

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite. 

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart. 

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment. 

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to. 

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours. 

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence. 

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first. 

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital. 

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. It's as if darkness surrounds him entirely- a bottomless sky where the stars of your affection have fizzled out, so suddenly, leaving him alone to wander blind. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night. 

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over. 

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm. 

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane. 

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it." 

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball. 

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout. 

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest. 

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard. 

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears. 

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper. 

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?” 

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

 “My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words. 

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout. 

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most. 

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.  

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask. 

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it. 

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips. 

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?” 

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back." 

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out. 

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. The room in your heart may remain forever locked, the gateway to that chamber brimming with your stolen memories. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries. 

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now. 

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room. 

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho. 

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?” 

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much. 

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree. 

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

 “I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears. 

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep. 

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along the corridors of your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us. 

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain. 

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own. 

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.” 

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking. 

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory. 

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze. 

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho. 

'My heart will always remember you'. 

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low. 

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him. 

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul. 

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home. 

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are. 

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to. 

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday. 

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms. 

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known. 

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on. 

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call? 

He couldn’t survive another call.  

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone? 

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right. 

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care. 

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders. 

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you." 

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks. 

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.” 

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?" 

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips. 

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed. 

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised. 

"Because you are." 

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away. 

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge. 

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground. 

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly. 

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?" 

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap. 

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand." 

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-" 

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this." 

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?" 

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us." 

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness. 

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn." 

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave." 

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them." 

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.” 

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek. 

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat. 

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft? 

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away. 

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.” 

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat. 

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

[ozai-the-bonsai]

Like Lovers Do

| Part 1 | Part 2 |

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: You and Daemon would dream about marrying each other before both of you became victims of political marriages, very much against your wills: he was sent to the Vale and you to the Riverlands. However, when your lord husband passes away, you return to King’s Landing, only to find out that your childhood sweetheart is now wearing a crown of his own.

A/N: I am finally back for the Daemon x reader fics, you lovely people! I hope you still remember me after that loooooooooong gap... Anyways, I once again wrote too much and couldn't even get to the point I was heading - I intended this story to be a one-shot but it seems I will be writing another chapter for the spicy stuff ;) I hope you enjoy it! (I am also open to any Daemon requests you might have for me!)

Warnings: I am not a native English speaker, strong language

Taglist: @throughgoeshamilton @mirandastuckinthe80s @xicesam @mariamyousef702 @eddiemadmunson @dont-try-pesticide @sweetybuzz25 @hc-geralt-23 @schniiipsel @ttae-yong @syrma-sensei @asiludida164 @kaitieskidmore1 @irmavanity-blog @pax-2735 @trickrtreatart @shanzeyxsyed @random-human02 @scarwicht @xcallmetaniax @instabull @niiight-dreamerrrr @my-dark-prince @stargaryenx @abaker74 @babywolff @sonnensplitter @bi-narystars @softtina

You had almost forgotten the way his voice sounded.

Fourteen long years had it been, the last time you were given the privilege to let your eyes wander on his handsome face as long as they desired.

You had expected time to have changed you in all the possible ways anyone could ever imagine, the years you had spent at the Riverlands being no different than a bird in a cage did harden you to your very core; however, the moment his sweet voice reached your ears again, you felt yourself melting just as you did when you were six-and-ten.

For the first time in fourteen years; for the first time after you had left King's Landing, you were feeling the warmth in your heart again, waking up from its deep slumber, melting the frost that used to be your heart.

At first, you hadn't even believed it when you heard the whispers roaming the castle about the return of the Rogue Prince.

"Prince Daemon is back," the whispers had said, "and he is wearing a crown."

King of the Narrow Sea? You had thought to yourself, following the crowds into the Throne Room. Is he going to challenge his brother now? Have the years turned him completely mad?

And now, you were watching him, King of the Narrow Sea, give up his crown to King Viserys.

He really is back.

After the ceremony in the Throne Room was over, the Royals and the Small Council moved to the Godswood to celebrate the Prince's victory over the Triarchy. You weren't quite sure whether it was expected of you to join them; however, upon seeing the way your father looked at you, you decided to follow them. Your heart was racing as if it was trying to break free from your chest.

Your father's position in King Jaehaerys’ and after him King Viserys’ Small Council had allowed you an easy, enjoyable life within the walls of the Red Keep, allowing you to share the early years of your youth with Prince Daemon, growing up alongside him.

Until he decided it was time for you to marry a rich lord and be shipped to the Riverlands, of course. You had known long before your father made his decision that you would, sooner or later, have to marry someone - preferably some lord from one of the Great Houses.

However, you had expected your father to come to you with this delicate matter first, instead of shaking hands with the lords as if he was doing some kind of trade.

"I do not care about some stupid lord in the Riverlands," you had told your father upon hearing the terrible news about your future. "I am going to marry Prince Daemon, Father. How can you even begin to compare him with any other man in the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Prince Daemon is going to the Vale," your father had responded in a cold voice. It made you realize he had wished for you to become the Prince's wife perhaps even more than you yourself had. "It has been decided that he is to take Lady Rhea Royce as his wife." Upon seeing the tears beginning to form in your eyes, your father had held your hands. "I am sorry, my sweet girl, but there is no other way."

Even though you had known all these years, deep down, that your father's only wish was for you to have an easy, wealthy life (and at the meanwhile keeping his good connections, and establishing relations with the strong houses), the anger you had been feeling never really faded away.

Yes, you had led a wealthy life for the last fourteen years; however, being the second wife of a (compared to your six-and-ten self) fairly old lord had taken all the happiness you had ever known from you. It was almost as if you had forgotten how to enjoy life...

After arriving at the Godswood - since the Red Keep was enormous, it always took ages to get from one place to another - you too poured yourself a glass of red wine as you stood beside your father. King Viserys and some other members of the Small Council were talking with Prince Daemon, mostly about the war against the Triarchy.

Somehow, it seemed like Daemon didn't even notice you were there, maybe he didn't really recognise you after all those years - you couldn't say.

Until King Viserys saw you standing next to your father, the Master of Coins.

The King's face lightened with a bright smile as he turned his eyes to his younger brother, placing his left hand on Daemon's shoulder. "Brother, you surely remember Lord Beesbury's lovely daughter," the King spoke with a delightful tone. "She has, too, recently returned to King's Landing."

The world froze around the two of you when Daemon's purple eyes met yours. Every other person standing there with you faded away, and all the other sounds melted into silence until it was just you and him, the same memory playing in front of your eyes.

"I am going to make you my Queen one day," Daemon whispered in your ear. "I promise you."

You were out at the Godswood, sitting under the moonlight - both of you had to be around sixteen, it was shortly before the calamity that was your marriage.

You raised an eyebrow in his direction. "So you plan on winning me and the Iron Throne?" You asked him, only to earn a cocky smirk.

"You would be surprised to see what I am capable of, my Lady."

I have seen what you are capable of, my Prince, you thought as you came back to reality. You were breathing heavily. Capable of winning a war without the support of the Crown, earning your very own crown - but you still gave it up to your brother.

To prevent the awkward silence from getting any longer, Daemon quickly wore his famous smirk as he nodded at the King. "Of course, how could I not," he spoke with a charming aura surrounding him. Taking a step towards you, the Prince held your right hand gently and brought it to his lips. "It has been many years, my Lady." The Prince told you. "Though, it is somewhat unfair that the years have not touched your beauty, not in the slightest."

The poker face, which only showed a humble smile fitting of a lady of your position, would never give away that you were, in fact, dying inside. Feeling his lips and his touch for the very first time in fourteen years had hit you like a wall of bricks.

"You flatter me, my Prince," you spoke with your best I-am-a-noble-lady tone. "Congratulations on your victory."

Before continuing the conversation with his brother and the other Lords, Daemon gave you a small nod - only you realised that he had allowed his eyes to linger on your face longer than they needed to.

[Time Skip}

"I wasn't expecting to see you here again, after all those years."

Hearing his velvet voice, you raised your head to look at Daemon, who was standing to your right. Fixing your silver dress and crossing one leg over the other, you waited for him to continue speaking.

"Why aren't you at the Rivenlands?"

You raised an eyebrow at the Prince as you responded while mimicking the same cocky tone he always used. "Why haven't you been at the Vale all those years?"

The edge of Daemon's lips curled upwards as he shook his head, he was wearing a red, long-armed tunic under his long, black cloak - proudly carrying the colours of his House. "Your attitude hasn't changed even in the slightest, love."

You rolled your eyes at him, keeping your attitude, not letting it falter under the heavy weight of the love your heart still carried for him. Of course, it would have been a lot easier to give into your heart's whispers and welcome him with arms wide open; however, you had grown overmuch furious with him over the years.

First and foremost, he had broken off every damn contact with you at an instant as soon as you had left King's Landing. You haven't heard from Daemon for fourteen years. News and gossip about his doings had reached your ears, of course, but not from Daemon himself.

And second, it had hurt you too fucking much when you saw he had done nothing to fight for your love. As the Prince, he could have had more of a say in the matter than you, but all he had done was tell you goodbye and disappear into the night. That was the last you had seen of him, fourteen years ago.

At first, you had thought that perhaps, Daemon had found the idea of marrying Lady Rhea Royce more appealing than marrying you. Until the news had reached the Riverlands about the Rogue Prince's failed marriage - not long after, he had returned to King's Landing, never to visit the Vale ever again.

Rhea Royce had never been what Daemon desired, and apparently, you too - else, he would have at least tried to find a way to arrange something, anything.

Placing your hands on your lap, you asked. "Can I be of further assistance to you, my Prince?"

"You can start by providing me with an answer, my Lady," Daemon said, arching an eyebrow in your direction. "Why did you return to King's Landing? Has your lord husband got a place in the Small Council now?"

"He has passed away," you spoke with a low voice while playing with your fingers. "A few months ago."

The Prince licked his lower lip. "I would wish to offer you my condolences, love," he spoke, "but I have never liked the sight of that cunt."

Your eyes widened with shock upon hearing his words, you hissed between your teeth. "Seven hells, Daemon!" The Prince shrugged in a careless manner. "Show at least some respect to the dead!"

"Will you be staying here?" he asked, earning a nod from you. "Why not stay at the Riverlands?"

This time, you turned your eyes away - his intense gaze was making you feel dizzy. "There is nothing for me there, at the Riverlands. My late husband's eldest nephew holds the Lord title now." Taking a deep breath, you leaned forward to pour yourself some wine. "You see, we didn't have any children to inherit my late husband's position, hence there was no more need for me."

Upon feeling Daemon's hand closing on top of yours, you quickly raised your head to look at him. Gently, the Prince took the carafe from your hands to pour you a glass of wine. With slow movements, he handed you the glass.

"I thought the whole idea behind you marrying that old man was to provide him with heirs," Daemon spoke, his purple eyes lighting with curiosity. He didn't even explicitly ask about the reason behind the failure but you could easily read it from the way he looked.

"We did try, for years, but..." Taking a moment, you took a big sip from your wine. "He could have tried with a dozen other women for another ten years and it still wouldn't have changed anything."

Daemon pursed his lips upon understanding the meaning behind your words. "I see, this explains why he didn't have any heirs from his first marriage, too." You nodded. "Good riddance, should I say now? At least you are free from that burden of yours."

"As if you cared about me or my burden," you snorted. Upon seeing the confused look inside his eyes, you first drank your half-empty glass - all at once - and then stood up. Raising your head, you looked Daemon in the eye, your faces standing dangerously close to each other. "It has been fourteen fucking years, Daemon," you spoke with a low voice but still, your fury could be heard in every word. "And not one fucking raven from you. You just walked away from my life, as if I meant nothing to you!"

Towards the end, your tone tended to become higher, thus you took a deep breath to keep yourself under control. From the corner of your eye, you could see Queen Alicent and your father taking a curious look in your direction.

With his left hand, Daemon held you firmly on your right wrist as he whispered, looking down at you. "You meant everything to me," he put emphasis on each word. "Don't you dare act as if you don't know it."

Your chest brushed against his with every breath, you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. At that very moment, the only thing you wanted was for Daemon to push you against the stone wall behind you and kiss you until you couldn't remember your own name anymore.

With slow movements, Daemon leaned into your ear, his warm breath brushing against your neck. You didn't even realise you were pressing your lips against each other - your breaths were heavy, your head felt dizzy and you slowly got drunk with his smell surrounding you.

"Do you have any idea," the Prince whispered in your ear, his voice full of sex appeal. You could melt right then and there, inside his arms. "How many nights I have spent, thinking about you?"

Back then, when you were both young and in love, Daemon had never touched you other than sharing small kisses (and rarely not-so-small kisses) for you wanted to wait until marriage.

In retrospect, you believed your younger self to have been too naive and, well, young - after seeing one could in fact do whatever they desired as long as it was discrete enough.

Now, all the lust and desire you both had been bottling up for years came to the surface.

Holding onto the last bits of your will, you took a step back, putting some visible distance between Daemon and yourself - so that you could think clearly once more.

"Then why," you asked, your voice sounding weaker than you wanted it to. "Why did you disappear from my life?"

The Prince cast a quick look at the curious people around you - some of the council members seemed kind of interested in your conversation with Daemon since they were sending curious looks in your direction every other second.

Muttering something under his breath - he was probably cursing at the nosiness of the people - Daemon quickly put on one of his most charming smiles. "Perhaps the lady would like to grant me the honour of dining with her this evening," he spoke with his velvet-like voice as he took your hand and brought it to his soft lips. The mild wind was causing his silver hair to sway ever so gently. "Where we can discuss further, as long as she likes."

Your heart skipped a beat.

Of course, you knew what his true intention was. This invitation was more than just a dinner where you could both scream at each other about the fourteen years you have lost - it was also to make up for all that time.

Your brain was shouting at you, telling you that you were making a big mistake - the Prince was still married, even though his marriage had been a bigger failure than yours - but your desires were stronger.

"I would love to, my Prince." The words left your lips before you could even think.

Daemon winked at you before leaving Godswood. "I will be waiting for you in my chambers, love."

[purpleph4se]

devotion p2

armand x reader

warnings | smut, afab! reader, dom! armand, oral (fem), hypnosis (kinda sorta), blood drinking (im sorry i had too), praise, creampie

a/n | HEY EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! so so sorry for disappearing for a minute but i basically forced myself to finish this fic since i felt like it needed a p2 so feast my children. i wanted to finish it sooner so i would be able to post it on halloween but writers block fucked me sideways. enjoy as always <3 crossposted on my ao3

part 1 here <3

your mind was still hazy from your orgasm, you briefly feel armand shift behind you and settle in between your legs. 

lowering himself, armand placed a trail of kisses over your tummy, letting his tongue sneak out from time to time. he held your gaze, and you, still in the afterglow of pleasure, couldn’t look away. his golden eyes were so tender and mellow, capturing yours in a trance.

he resumed his kisses over your belly, his hands gripped both your thighs to spread them wide apart. he rubbed soothing circles on your thighs with his thumbs, his lips whispering sweet words of praise and encouragement against the sensitive skin.

“you’re being so good for me, beloved..” his voice was sweet honey pouring into your ears, it left tingles all over your skin. his kisses lowered from your navel towards your core in a torturous pace, savoring every contact his lips had with your supple skin. 

“you trust me, don’t you?”

and there he was again, you swore you heard him inside your head. too dazed to even ask him how he’s doing you instead nod dumbly at his question. he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, right?

“good, good…” he positioned himself in between your thighs, not at your core just yet but instead he placed kisses upon your thigh. starting at the crevice where your thigh met your cunt, he trailed soft kisses up. you sighed, quivering under his touch. 

his gaze met yours once again, “i promise this won’t hurt…” he whispered. you opened your mouth to speak before he unhinged his jaw, a perfect set of fangs almost suddenly appeared and then disappeared once they sank into the flesh of your thigh. 

you gasped, throwing your head back in pain, but it lasted only a second before a wave of bliss went through you, a high from him sucking the blood from your thigh. for a moment you thought he was going to kill you.

“a—armand—“ 

he continued to drink from you as you watched his pupils expand as he tasted your blood. he unattached himself from your thigh, your blood soaking his mouth, dripping onto the sheets. you felt lost in a haze. “my love, you taste divine…” he mumbled, lapping at the blood leaking from the punctures he left, seemingly having a soothing effect on the wounds. 

“armand…wh-what are y-“

“shh, beloved. don’t speak. don’t think…”

he was in your head again. what the fuck was happening? armand continued to press soothing kisses on your thigh. alarm bells were going off in your head but you couldn’t help but stay still for him. far too entranced by the angelic man in between your legs.

“let me take care of you…”

and like a puppet pulled by his strings, you begged him, begged him to please you. he pulled away just a little to admire the sight in front of him. his golden eyes were now fixated on your core. the rich and fragrant scent of your arousal filled his nostrils and made him almost light-headed.

reaching out with the tip of a finger, he lightly prodded at the small pearl crowning your core and lowering at your entrance, eliciting a cry out of you.

armand observed fascinated by how your body reacted to his barely there touch, your cunt crying at his touch and coating the tip of his finger. you were sopping wet already, your sweet nectar already leaving small stains on his bedsheets.

taking his digit, he lifted it to his face and watched for a moment how it glistened with your essence coating it. his piercing eyes locking with your as his tongue rolled out of his mouth, sensually licking your nectar off his finger. 

“oh, beloved…”

you let out a loud gasp as his lips and tongue made contact with your cunt. he started slow, teasing your entrance with the tip of his tongue before moving his lips to your clit, suckling gently on it and then starting his pattern again.

then he’s eating into you, lips and tongue and edges of teeth devouring you like the lion to the lamb. your eyes clench shut so hard that you see stars in the blackness. 

his lips close around your clit and he sucks on it it, ravenous, your slick was so enticing for armand, just like your blood, he started feeling drunk of it. he soon picked up his pace, drinking from you desperately, eating you with such care and need just like when he was drinking from you.

“a-ahh armand—please-!” you struggled trying to form coherent words. you squirmed and wiggled in his grasp, your hands searching for something, anything, to hold onto and ground you to reality. both of them ended latching to his black locks of hair, your mind torn between pushing him away in fear for your life, or pulling him even closer to keep him pleasuring you.

It was too much, and at the same time, it wasn’t enough.

your hips rolled instinctively into his greedy mouth, your legs shaking uncontrollably, giving him no choice but to hold onto your thighs with a deadly grip, effectively pinning you down onto his mattress and leaving you with no chance to move away from him.

the entire room felt like it was spinning, filled with your wanton cries and the dirty slurping sounds coming from armands mouth, as well as his constant moans of satisfaction. your back arched constantly, and you kept whining his name like a desperate prayer for mercy. mercy you wouldn’t receive from him anytime soon.

your hands couldn’t stay still in a single place, soon they had left his hair to instead grab onto the bedsheets or the pillow supporting your head. you lowered one hand to look for something else to hold onto for dear life, when it suddenly found one of his. 

instinctively, you both laced your fingers together, chasing your peak. your grip to his hand tightened as you felt yourself slipping over the edge. armand must sense that your climax is dawning on you so quickly, too quickly for his liking, because he slides from your body and he leaves a parting kiss on your cunt. he stared at you, looking like a wild, hungry animal, there was only a small golden ring left in dilated eyes.

“i—i need you to cum on my cock..”

your chest rises and falls in shaking breaths. the sight of him between your parted legs, his beautiful mouth stained with your slick pulling into a gentle smirk that makes your cunt ache as well as strike a deep fear in you. 

"would you enjoy that, beloved?" he purrs the question. you swallow thickly as you try to collect your thoughts. your mind reels with the whiplash of having been so close to your breaking point and then suddenly back to total lack of stimulation. 

and as if the words were pulled out of you “yes, please armand—i need you…” you watch him push up to sit on his knees.

he towers over you with zero effort, all slender and sinewy and spectral. he unbuckles his pants and pulls out the evidence of his carnality as it lays heavy and hard against his leg, the slit leaking slightly on his tan flesh. 

you felt dizzy nearly drooling at the view presented before you speak again. "i-i want you to fuck me, please—please make me yours armand, i wanna—“ you gasp see his cock throb at your words and he leans in closer, pushing your knees farther apart. armand presses an incendiary kiss to your lips to put an end to your begging.

you gasp brokenly against his mouth as the head pushes into you. its girth splits you cleanly and the overload of sensation has you clutching onto him, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your hands into his hair.

"shh-shh my love, shh-shh..." he hushes you, his whispers coming out with a tremor as he hilts fully inside you. being this close, you can smell the metallic sweetness of your own fluids on his chilled breath. his hips roll gently to bottom out. 

the both of you sit panting for a moment before he begins to push back and forth in rhythm. his pace is slow and easy, and he drinks in the sounds you make under him. 

"taking me so—so well, love..” croons, and his tone gives away just how much he aches for you. the swing of his hips brings breathless sounds and trembly sighs from you and you can tell he's feasting on the chorus you're giving up so generously. 

"you will be mine forever." he murmurs, lips against your neck, feeling your sweet blood rushing through your veins. "you know that, yes? whose you belong to and whose you are?"

"i’m yours-" your reply is a rushed tumble and you cant your hips upwards to catch his thrusts at a better angle. in a blur, light bursts behind your eyes and you sing delightfully with it. "i’m yours!"

armand almost whimpers at your words while driving his hips into your soft willing body. his mouth is almost like hellfire against your flesh, branding you so that only he can have you. he’s resisting the urge to skin his fangs into your thoughts yet whole time he's whispering and chanting in your mind that you belong to him and him alone. 

heat flashes hot and white through your whole being as you're suddenly wracked with your orgasm. it like dying, like flying, like being tossed end over end as he slams into you through your climax.

he’s gripping you close like he's scared you'll vanish suddenly, rutting into you like an animal as he chases the delicious pulsing warmth of your walls. he can feel you clutching him as well, blunt nails digging into his back and hand tangled in his dark hair.

your name is like poetry on his tongue, twisted into art by ecstasy and prayer, as he finally spills his seed deep in your core, so searing that you could believe instead that it's actually freezing. his hips rock to a stop.

he stays above you, panting with you in the heady aftershocks that leave sparks in the corners of your visions.

armand shifts to kiss you, in which you can taste yourself on him in a way that leaves you whining into his mouth, and leans up all the way. he is so wickedly beautiful in the moonlight.

"will you stay…?" he breathes the words, voice and low and inviting. louis flashes in his mind for a moment, not for long as he watches you tiredly smile as he slides from you. you're not sure why but, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“i’ll stay, armand”

[sparkling-ariaria]

Marauders Era fics I read and want to keep...

*Complete fem or non-specific reader insert fics*Upd: 25.05.2023

Poor bunny by robynlilyblack - Remus x Reader Y/n doesn’t understand why her friends are lying to her every month, so on one full moon she follows them…

The girl with the books by solemnarration- Remus x Reader James and Sirius notice that it’s not the books that keep Remus in the library, and are determined to know whether you – the object of Remus’s affection – return his feelings.

Beautiful by acosmis-t - Remus x Reader Comforting insecure Remus.

The gist of it by yellow-berrys - Remus x Reader You’re meeting Remus’ mother for the first time, and it’s overwhelming for her how lovely the house is.

One where he teaches you how to play the Piano by proserpina-magnus - Regulus x Reader

From a distance by still-blue-sky - Regulus x Reader Reader has a major crush on the mysterious Regulus Black and has always observed him from a distance. She never thought that he would feel the same until proven otherwise late at night in the library.

A snake and his little bird by robynlilyblack - Regulus x Reader Y/n has been keeping her relationship with a certain Black brother secret, but when James starts investigating why she's always stealing the map she's in hot water.

Smart cookie by robynlilyblack - Sirius x shy!Reader Sirius needs a tutor for herbology and he happens to be granted the shiest girl in the world to help him, luckily, he happens to love that about her.

Dote on me by yellow-berries - modern!Sirius x Reader You are completely oblivious to the way Sirius black dotes on you, and think that the way you're infatuated with him is completely one-sided. But he begs to differ.

Dealbreaker by luveline - Sirius x Reader You work in a bookstore. Sirius keeps finding reasons to need books.

Forbidden words by padfootagain - Sirius x Reader You've been dating Sirius for a while now, and it's been going wonderfully well. However, when you finally confess that you love him, he find himself unable to say it back. It will take time for him to be ready to say these three forbidden words out loud, but if there's someone who can make him overcome his inner demons, it's you.

Pumpkin's father and your lover by justyoursimpleflower - Sirius x Reader Sirius and you find a kitten, apparently she is a matchmaker.

Vivre d'amour et d'eau fraîche by acosmis-t - Sirius x Reader

Sirius drabble by sxriusblxck - Sirius x Reader Cuddling with Sirius after a long day spent together.

Still pretty by upsidedownwithsteve - Sirius x Reader Drunk Sirius, something cute and fluffy.

Sirius visits you at work by magicchai - Sirius x Baker!Reader Sirius showing up with flowers for his girl at work when she's having a bad day.

I can't focus because I can't keep you out of my head. by perpetuallydaydreaming - James x Reader 5 times James got distracted because of you.

Gorgeous distraction by gtgbabie0 - James x Reader James trying his best to study while you distract him.

And I love her by dilf-lover99 - James x Reader The 3 times James tries to get the girl and the 1 time he finally does. Or In which James Potter is hopelessly in love with his best friend.

You'll be in my heart by once-upon-an-imagine - James x Sister!Reader Hurt/comfort with James where a guy is making her very uncomfortable by hitting on her when James wasn’t there.

SB piece by familyvideostevie - grumpy!Sirius x sunshine!Reader Reader gets a phone call from Remus about her boyfriend moping away in a club.

E prometti domani a tutti parlerai di me by littlest-dark-age - Sirius x Reader Soft Sirius making a flower crown for his love.

Regulus dating someone from Hufflepuff by magicchai

Remus' remedy by magicchai - Remus x Reader Remus has the perfect remedy to fix his girlfriend’s migraines.

[beananacake]

My Crown Upon Your Head (Ch. 2)

Prince!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: When an arranged engagement between Prince James of Brookland and Princess Natasha ushers the discovery of the existence of a marriage contract between you and said prince, you readily agree to a divorce for the sake of the kingdom. At first, you had been willing to be separated from Prince James but as you spend more time with your husband, you begin to feel things that are forbidden. It does not help your case when James shares the same sentiments. As you combat the emotions that excite and scare you, the discoveries you make of the people that surround you make you suspect there is something else at play...

WC: 4.9K

Warnings: period-typical misogyny, 18+ for delicate issues, mentions of war, Sam and Bucky are slightly out of character but let's just say it's for the sake of the fic, more of exposition in this one, large chunks of paragraphs, badly translated language

A/N: I will officially OPEN a TAGLIST! I cannot keep a fixed schedule for updating MCUYH so anyone who wants to be included, just comment down on the fic or maybe send me a message (my ask box is being annoying so it's useless atm). Please enjoy!

It was an unusual request that you asked for lemons and lavenders with your writing materials but they delivered. You merely said that they were for you to bite on but truly, the lemons were for writing a message that only your father could decipher. What was once a simple trick your father had taught you during your travels was now your only means of communicating with him without the rest of the palace knowing. You had only used it for important missives and what else could be more important than for your father to know that you had been married to the prince and that you were to be kept to the palace indefinitely.

You wrote carefully, telling him to keep the information to himself. You had no ambitions of being a princess and the irony of you being one—or being deemed ambitious by the Grand Duke—was not lost on you. You kept your secret message short and concise, and you also told him no promises of future missives lest you be found out. Once you were finished with the lemon ink, you let it dry and took to writing the obvious message with ink. You scribbled, in between the lines written in lemon juice, your request for your trunks, writing implements, and the many books you were supposed to be reading. The visible letter was short and direct and you sealed it with wax and a sprig of lavender—your unofficial insignia—so your father would immediately know that the message was from you.

When you have sent your letter, you met with the Head Housekeeper. She assigned to you a personal lady’s maid and had two girls prepare a bath for you and another to bring you an appropriate change of clothing. The Duke of Queensfield is bound to arrive by nightfall and the King will not want his guest to appear unprepared, she had said as she looked at you sternly. You cannot find fault in that; you still smelled like the salt of the sea and you did not want to further scandalize people with your unusual choice of clothing.

“What shall I call you, miss?” asked the maid—Wanda, she replied when you asked of her name—as she scrubbed your shoulders with warm water and simple soap. You had told her that you were fine with bathing yourself but the surprise on her face made you realize that you had made a terrible faux pas. Of course, guests of the king were expected to be waited on hand and foot.

“Y/N, please,” you replied. “I am all but noble so please do not burden yourself with titles to call me. If you are uncomfortable with calling me by my name, you can continue calling me ‘miss.’”

“I must confess, miss, I am inexperienced as a lady’s maid. I had only been an apprentice mere months before the queen passed.” Wanda told you humbly.

“I do not have my own personal lady’s maid.” You told her in confidence. “All that you do is of great help to me already.”

Wanda’s eyes were owlish on her face when she turned to you in surprise. She was a beautiful little thing despite the frailness and pointedness of her features. Her hair, an enviable shade of titian, was pulled severely in a bun on her nape and gave her a look that was beyond her years. The softness of her accented voice, however, betrayed the maturity of her features—she could not be any older than twenty.

You smiled gently at her. “I am unbearably common, Wanda.”

“It is rare for the king to house a common guest, miss, if you do not mind me saying.”

“I find my situation quite uncommon for a commoner like me.” You let her wash off the lather. “Your accent. It is familiar but I cannot place it.”

She paused in her ministrations, looking at you once more with her green eyes, before returning to her task. “I was from Sokovia,” she said simply.

Was. Such a simple word but it conveyed a thousand griefs. You knew of Sokovia, of the disaster that had been wrought by powerful countries at war. Sokovia was not at fault for existing in between two quarrelling nations. It was unfortunate to have been in the middle of it all. It had been all too sudden; the call for war happened unexpectedly that they had not amassed an army in time to defend themselves. It was the decimation of its capital city of Novi Grad that had put an end to the existence of such small but promising land.

“Forgive me.” You touched Wanda’s hand, squeezing it gently to convey your sympathies. “I would not have asked if I had known.”

“It is of little consequences now. My home is now here, in Brookland. To work for the kingdom is an honor, miss.”

You smiled gently. “Our monarchs are kind and just.”

“Yes. Most especially the queen, may her soul rest.” She hummed a regret-filled sound. “When she died, the whole kingdom was devastated. Since then, the king had been in poor health. He is worried for the kingdom’s future should he soon follow his wife.”

You let her dry you and bring your chemise before you pressed on with more of your questions.

“Is the prince incapable of ruling?” you asked as you adjusted the cotton garment against your body.

You had known princes were schooled into being future monarchs since their infancy. Perhaps Prince James was otherwise engaged in other matters, especially in that of being a soldier.

Wanda laced your stays as she replied.

“Prince James is very capable, miss. However, the king has stipulated that the kingdom be ruled by a king and a queen. He has to marry before he ascends the throne.” She passed you a modesty petticoat and, once worn, fastened a heavy hoop skirt around your waist.

Of course. It was the very reason you were called for, after all. Your presence had been a great hindrance to the future of the kingdom. With you still legally wed to the prince, he would not be able to marry the Grand Duke’s niece.

“Does he have a bride he wishes to wed?” you asked, bobbing as she brought another two more petticoats and the outer skirt overhead. “Are your privy to that information?”

Any woman, noble or not, would be curious about the future queen of the kingdom. Even one married to said prince.

“The Grand Duke’s niece, miss. It is said she is a Princess from Russia.”

A princess. It was now truly understandable why the Grand Duke was irate with you. Who else was a better match for the prince than a princess?

The butterflies in your stomach fluttered as you remembered James’s intense gaze. He had looked over at you appreciatively even in your disheveled state, and you had reacted in a way that had only been shown in Shakespeare’s comedies. There was a flutter of excitement that coursed through you at the sight of his appraising eyes—heady, potent, foreign; it made you feel silly. You knew you were flustered when you had looked at him, felt the heat rise and color your cheeks, and you made an utter fool of yourself by giving an ungraceful curtsy. You were often calm and collected in the face of royalty, always poised and proper, and in that moment, you stumbled. All because of your husband.

Oh, dear.  

You needed to stop calling him thus, even in your thoughts. The king would have you punished if he ever caught you referring to the prince as your husband.

Wanda rearranged the many petticoats under your skirt before running a flat palm down to keep it in place. She took a similarly colored bodice and fastened its buttons at your back. You faced the mirror and stifled a gasp when you saw your reflection. The dress was a confection of delicate lace and beautiful pink silk taffeta. The bodice was left bare, save for the intricately made neckline. Seed pearls and violet-hued gemstones were sewn with gold thread in elegant, floral motifs across your chest. Lace as delicate as a spider’s web cascaded just beneath it, fluttering at the slightest touch of the wind. Short, puffed sleeves of the same pink taffeta and cream-colored lace were gathered with a delicate pink bow on your arm. The layers of flounce that encircled the skirt may have dated the dress to the fashion of the yesteryears but it did not diminish the inherent beauty. It was simple yet opulent; it was a testament of Brookland’s quiet riches. And it fit perfectly as though it was made for you.

“Oh, how beautiful,” you gushed. It was a dress fit for a royal. “But I feel I am not fit to wear it. Such a dress would be missed by its owner. I am perfectly fine to receive a simple frock.”

“The late queen did not have much simple dresses, miss,” Wanda remarked as she bent down to fasten your shoes.

“I beg your pardon?” You must have misheard. Surely, the palace would not have lent you a gown from the late queen’s personal closets. “You mean to tell me this belonged to Queen Winnifred?”

“Yes, miss. Our Sunday’s bests are not fit to be worn to a receiving of the Duke of Queensfield, and the Head Housekeeper’s dresses would not have fit you properly without being taken in. This dress seemed the most fitting to present to you.” Your maid replied innocently.

Of course. If only your trunks had arrived during your bath, you would have a choice of dress albeit not as elegant as the one you were in. It is only a matter of clothing, Y/N. Princess Shuri had even lent her ceremonial robes to me when I needed them, you thought to yourself. Yes. There was no need for you to worry overmuch with your appearance. In the meantime, you would relish the feel of wearing Brookland’s fineries on your body.

“The Grand Duke, he is not a Brook,” you said when you sat before your vanity.

Wanda had insisted to style your hair and you agreed, knowing a simple plait would not be appropriate for meeting the prince’s cousin.

“No, miss. He was a part of the Sokovian nobility.” Wanda replied as she combed and pinned your hair.

“I see. Was he the highest ranking official who had been exiled here?”

“I do not think so. Although, he had been the only one who wished to serve the king.”

It was no wonder why his niece had been chosen as the prince’s bride. If the saying was true—that the Sokovians were unfailingly loyal—then the king could not have chosen a better future queen for the kingdom. It was another reason why you must divorce the prince as soon as you can.

You dismissed Wanda when she had finished with your hair but not before thanking her for her help. You strode out of your room with a new sense of purpose. Any book on the politics of the kingdom would be a great help to you and to this predicament you put yourself in. The palace library would have housed these scholarly books you needed.

You had a vague memory of where the library was, supposing it hadn’t been moved in the last twenty years since you had been here. You recalled it being situated near the gardens on the east of the grand staircase, with ornate double doors of gold gilding. Portraits of the current royal family and ones of the prince should be hung on either side of its entryway. You went down the grand staircase and headed right, smiling politely at the stunned footmen who hastily opened the doors to the library for you.

The scent of wood and books assaulted your nose before you saw the richly decorated library. Dark oak shelves were teeming with books of all shapes and sizes and it reached up to the grandly decorated ceilings. There were murals of heavenly bodies painted on the dome, of vibrantly colored scenarios that told of religious histories and Brookland’s myths and legends, and each panel was artfully done as the next one. Arched windows with views of the palace gardens gave ample lighting to the otherwise dark room. In the middle of it all lay two opulently carved long tables; each bearing candles, sheafs of paper, and writing materials. A mezzanine wrapped around the room; the shelves on it housing even more volumes. At the opposite side, a cavernous marble fireplace blazed generously.

On any other time, you would have perused every title of the books held within but for now, you settled for any book on Brookland’s laws and constitution. You walked over to the section of the library where you assumed housed those books and, pulling out one on the subject of constitution, settled by a window as you started to read.

You were not educated much in Brookland’s laws but you knew that the volume you were reading had been outdated, evidenced by a passage saying that land disputes must be settled with blood through fisticuffs to the death. It was barbaric and antiquated and it made you go to the mezzanine to find another book that may have held the answers you were looking for.

A tome on matters regarding matrimony caught your eye and you pulled it out. It was dated to the last century but still, it was recent enough for you to study. You opened it to the contents table and scanned its pages as you slowly came down the spiral steps.

“Mein Gott!”

A rustle of papers made you look up and to the eyes of Grand Duke Zemo. He stared at you in alarm, his skin turning a deathly pale that you had not realized was possible for someone of his complexion. His mouth was hung open in shock and his hands trembled as the papers wafted from them.

You quickly executed a curtsy to the surprised man. “Your Grace.”

“Wie konntest du hier sein? Du bist tot!”

His eyes were wide and unseeing; his gaze passed right through you.

“Are you all right, Grand Duke?” You asked worriedly.

You stood there, unmoving; afraid that suddenly doing so would spook the already-terrified man. It had been some time before a noise disturbed the eerie silence of the library. The loud cracking of the fireplace from behind you effectively shook him from his stupor.

He blinked in rapid succession, the glazed look in his eyes vanishing as he saw you. Color returned to his cheeks until they were tinted an angry shade of red. “I thought I had seen Queen Winnifred.” He whispered harshly.

“Forgive me.” You said, although you did not know why. It only seemed to be the appropriate response at the moment. You flattened a hand down the front of your dress. “My trunks had not arrived and the Head Housekeeper had offered for me to wear Her Majesty’s dress.”

He stared openly at you, his sharp eyes roaming about your figure. Gooseflesh prickled at the trail his eyes left on your skin. He finally turned away to pick at his fallen items and you stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to dismiss you.

“What are you doing here?” he asked instead as he placed his items on the table.

“I was hoping to find something to read, Your Grace.” you replied, watching as he lit a candle. “There was a book on the constitution of Brookland—”

He raised a disbelieving brow as he glanced at you. “First, you marry the prince and now, you wish to learn more about the laws of the land?”

His question oozed incredulity and judgement.

“What shall be next? You will turn us out of the palace?” He scoffed. “Do not fancy yourself helping us out of this problem. You have made one mistake already, girl. God knows you would be creating another one for me to solve.”

You kept silent. It was unjust of him to think of you so, especially when you and he were towards the same goal. You did not want to remain married to the prince for long—heaven knows you were not brought up for such a task—but Grand Duke Zemo did not have to be nasty in his refusal of your help.

“Find some light reading,” he said. “Girls like you cannot comprehend the legislations of the land. There is a book on flowers that I find befits someone of your stature.”

You gave a polite but strained smile. A string of explanations sat at the tip of your tongue but you withheld it. It was futile to argue with the man, much more when he yielded power over you.

“Thank you, Grand Duke.” You replied shortly. “If you could point me to the direction of those books, I would be happy to take one.”

“Such impudence,” he murmured before grudgingly pointing at one corner of the room.

Taking the heavy tome, you replaced it before heading towards the section of the botany books. There was an array of them, all of botany but of different subjects. You also saw the different languages of the books, more artfully designed than the others. The foreign books appeared untouched, the gold foil of the titles still complete and glinting in the sun.

There was a section of German books and you plucked one out of the many unblemished volumes. You also took two sheets of paper and a pencil from the table when you descended.

“I shall bid you good day, Your Grace.” You curtsied in his general direction. He waved his hand at you dismissively and it cued you to leave the awful man alone.

In the very least, you knew where the library was located. The book about the laws of the land would have to wait. This book on botany, however it came to your possession, looked interesting. You were conversant in many a language, reading this German book would not pose a problem. It would keep you occupied while you waited for your trunks to arrive.

…

…

…

From his window, James watched as you emerged to the garden.

If he were honest with himself, he would say he was disappointed that you weren’t wearing your breeches and shirt anymore and that he could not admire your shapely figure but with the dress you had now donned, there was no mistaking the contours of your body. He had not had this visceral reaction to the Princess Natasha’s portrait, but then again, he had not seen her in the flesh. You, however, he had seen and admired. There was no mistaking what a great beauty you were and he would be blind to deny such visible truth to himself.

He could not find it in him to be angry with you. It was a peculiar situation you both had gotten into, the innocent intentions and legally binding contracts. His memory of you had rang clear in his head by the time he finished speaking with his father; he remembered your hope for a friendship with him, your eagerness in trying to copy your father’s way of sealing such relationships, and the way you were excited when you both had—unintentionally—sealed each other’s fate. It was simply laughable and not worth getting furious over, unlike his father and the Grand Duke Zemo.

With a renewed sense of vigor, James headed towards the garden. The ledgers had become awfully boring and the numbers had started to swim before his eyes. He had not even touched the missives that had piled on his desk lest he misunderstand important matters. This is a much needed reprieve, he convinced himself. I will do better once I have taken a stroll in the gardens.

He was determined to get to know you, that much was true. Even if you were not to remain married for long, he was eager to learn more about you. King George had said that you had traveled to different kingdoms and territories with your diplomat father and had lived in those places for nearly all your life. You were foreign as much as you were a Brook; that in itself was fascinating to him. Among other things, that is.

“Your Royal Highness, I suppose the reason for your rushing is so we can train,” came an amused, sarcastic voice behind him.

James stopped and turned towards its source. Samuel Wilson, the Captain of the Royal Guards, walked towards the prince with an air of equal parts amusement and frustration.  

“Whyever would you think otherwise?” James asked, a brow quirked at the obvious jape.

“You have been avoiding all my attempts at getting you to train.” remarked Sam. “Is it so hard to pick up your sword again? You had not been the same since the battle in Sokovia. A little movement should take away the laziness in you.”

“I had not been evading you and I am not lazy. I have had other important matters to attend to.” The prince exited the building with Captain Wilson trailing behind him. “And besides, don’t you tire of losing to me?”

Where were you? James thought as he scanned for you in the gardens. You could not have moved so quickly in the short time he went down to find you.

“I have never lost to you. I was simply bolstering your already inflated ego. And if you’re looking for the mysterious miss, she’s due west.” Sam said.

“I am not looking for her,” James replied hastily, much to his chagrin.

“Of course,” Sam said in a false grave tone. There was an unmistakable knowing grin in his words.

“I am not,” insisted James but approached you anyway.

He did not want to disturb your peace. You were poring over a book on the table while your hands were busy over a piece of paper. Scribbling, perhaps? he thought to himself as he watched you.

“I shall go and introduce myself.” Sam told him as he strode on ahead.

James followed behind him, taking on an impassive air so he did not seem overeager as he approached you. It had been a while since he last felt this way about a woman. It had been with Dolores—Dottie, as how he came to know her. She was an interesting character; ambitious for a mere daughter of a seamstress but wise beyond her years. A pity it was that he could not continue his friendship with her; the call for war drove the two of them apart. As he fought, she had gotten married. James was rightly heartbroken but he knew it would not have stood against his father. Princes married with royals, as was the custom.

“Sam Wilson, Captain of the Royal Guards, at your service.” Sam said as he bowed before you.

Against the backdrop of the high summer sun and the palace garden blooms, you appeared resplendent.

“Good day, Captain Wilson.” You smiled gently. You turned to James and curtsied. “Your Royal Highness.”

The wind tousled at your carefully coifed hair. Lemon and lavender, he thought as he caught a whiff of your scent.

James cleared his throat, which had become uncommonly tight. “Sam, this is Miss Y/N. She is my father’s guest.”

“Miss Y/N,” Sam repeated. He took your hand in his and placed a kiss atop it.

“I’ve heard stories of your triumphs in the war.” You told Sam, a polite smile gracing your face. “It must be quite a task to be commanding so many soldiers in the battlefield.”

“It is no simple feat. Prince James wishes he could command the army as I have,” Sam said with a sly grin.

James rolled his eyes. Disparity of their classes aside, Sam often jested with the prince and vice versa. But even if he and the captain were close friends, he had not told the captain as to why you were present in the palace. He knew it would do more harm than good to tell him of your relationship with each other. His father had been adamant that he divorce the two of you quietly so he could push through with James’s wedding to the Princess Natasha.

“I do not wish to command them, Sam. I do.” James said as he puffed his chest out with pride.

You snickered, then promptly apologized when both men turned to you with equally surprised looks.

“Oh, do forgive me. I do not recall ever seeing such a display of bravado since a proud young panther pounced at the older, more worldly one for a piece of food in Wakanda.” You rambled, a rosy tint rising on your cheeks.

At that, James laughed.

Any person would have cowered at the sight of the prince and the captain of the Royal Guards but not you. You were natural and you spoke your mind with such ease that it made him admire, as well as envy, you. There was no pretense or false modesty about you and it was refreshing for him to see that you weren’t one to fall at his feet and wax poetic about his title or his dashing good looks.

“And who won?” Sam asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.  

“One panther or another. I did not stay long enough.” You told him, adopting a serious mien. “Otherwise, I would have been their next meal.”

James smiled deeply. Your wit was sharp. It was a rarity these days. Most often, he was faced with a bumbling fool or a stammering twit.

You were also a proficient artist, he remarked, as he took in the array of papers on the table. You were sketching the flower that was on your book, halfway done by the looks of it. And intelligent as well, he silently mused as he saw the language of the book. He knew not many other people who had studied German; it was arduous language and was commonly taught to the children of noblemen and royalty. Most certainly it was not taught to the common folk.  

Every little thing he uncovered about you made him all the more curious.

“You study plants?” James asked as he motioned to your sketch. And a remarkable one at that, he thought approvingly.

You cast a furtive grimace at its direction. “Oh, no. The Grand Duke suggested that I read a book on flowers because it befits me instead of taking the book I was intending to read.”

He raised a brow at that. Zemo may appear hawkish but the man was as meek as a church mouse. “And what was it that you wanted to read?”

When you caught a rosy lip between your teeth as you hesitated, it was a surprise that he did not catch on fire on the spot at the heat that coursed through him.

“I was reading about the constitution and the laws of the land, Your Royal Highness.” you said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Whatever for?” Sam asked.  “If you do not mind my asking.”

James had momentarily forgotten his friend was present.

You turned your attentions to the Captain, hesitance still marring your face. “My… friend desires to learn of the grounds of separation. She is convinced she isn’t a fit match for her husband.”

“If I may inquire, why is the lady convinced she is not suit for her husband?”

“For one, her husband is so above her in stature. It is an unusual marriage, if I dare say so, Captain.” Your eyes met James’s as you went on. “They had unmistakably signed a marriage contract and had been bound since.”

There was uncertainty in your eyes as you looked at him. In anticipation for my reaction? James wondered. Your offense was great in King George’s eyes but to him, it was comical. Absurd and laughable. If Sir William Shakespeare were alive and present, he would have another comedy in his hands.

But it was a matter between you and him. Sam need not hear nor know of it.

“Yes, highly unusual.” Sam remarked. “But no matter. Should you wish to return to the library, I am certain His Royal Highness would be of great help to you.”

The prince nodded, hiding his surprise at being mentioned by his friend. “Yes, of course.” He leaned in towards you, a secret smile on his face. “Although, I must warn you, the language the laws were written in are not in German. Most are in Latin.”

You smiled and a dimple sank into your cheek. “It is no matter. So long as all of them are not wholly in Latin, then I think I shall understand it.”

James found himself mesmerized; his eyes trained on your lips for longer than what was allowed. They were petal-like, soft, and fresh.

“I’m afraid I must excuse myself.” Sam said suddenly. “I do not think Prince James would be coming with me to practice his swordplay so I shall leave him in your hands.”

“Oh.” You said, surprised, and turned to the Captain. “I’ve no intention of stealing him from his training, Captain.”

“And I believe he has no intention of coming to it.” Sam said wryly. He took your hand and bowed over it. “It was a pleasure to have met you, Miss Y/N.”

You smiled. “The pleasure is all mine, Captain Wilson.”

As Sam vanished behind the doors, James turned to you.

“Shall we take a turn about the gardens, Miss Y/N?”

[melrodrigo]

music nerds

Jenna Ortega x Fem!Reader

Summary: Jenna stumbles upon a tiny vinyl shop, and thinks the employee is mighty cute.

A/n: here it is nerds, my first jenna fic. Was in a silly goofy mood, I miss my babygirl so.

It started at the vinyl shop. You, rearranging the different records into the correct sections, stood humming absentmindedly to the tune of the song playing.

“How’s my favorite employee of the month doing?” Your coworker (and best friend) Harry pipes up, leaning on the shelves opposite you.

“You can stop calling me that, we both know the only reason I got crowned this month was because you missed six days and I had to cover for your ass.” You mumble, slightly annoyed. It had been a long day, with customers shuffling in and out without ever buying anything. It didn’t help that the only customers Harry attended to were girls he thought were cute.

He nudges you a little, trying to prompt you away from rearranging the vinyls.

When you don’t answer, he huffs a little and then makes his way to the back—no doubt about to take a nap—where he’ll stay until closing time.

You sigh softly, shaking your head.

Even though you loved Harry to shreds, you hated being his coworker. He could be trusted with nothing.

You move over to the next section, swaying a little to the tune, losing yourself in the music.

You’re aware of the jingle of the bell that indicates someone has entered as you shuffle through the records.

They could take care of themselves for just a few minutes, you reckon.

Soft footsteps sound from behind you, and the sound of someone putting a stop to the music makes you frown. Then, there’s a tiny scratching noise before the melody of I am Controlled By Your Love by Helene Smith sounds through the tiny store.

You can’t help the tiny smile that envelops your face; and the surprise that echos through your mind. You’d just found out about this song, while scrolling through a playlist someone had made for your celebrity crush, Jenna Ortega.

Apparently she liked the song, if you remembered correctly from watching one of her interviews passingly.

“Great choice.” You tell whoever put it on, still not turning to face them.

“Thanks, I’m surprised this place has it. I’ve been looking for weeks.” A girl answers, and it sounds vaguely familiar.

“Well, we sure do. One of the best vinyl stores in the country if I do say so myself.” You smile, finally finishing tampering with the discs and turn to your customer.

It takes everything in you to not gasp out loud—standing in front of you was the Jenna Ortega.

You feel your hands grip the shelves just a little tighter, and you prayed to god that Jenna didn’t see the blush very quickly climbing up your neck.

“One of the best, huh?” She smiles, and you swear you could feel your heart physically melt.

She looks, if not better, exactly like in the pictures. It’s surreal, this person you see almost everyday on your phone, standing in front of you.

She’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater and some baggy jeans. There are sunglasses blocking her eyes, maybe to try to avert attention, but you could tell in an instant who she was.

You think she knows too, by the way she’s smirking a little.

“Yeah, and there are a ton of artists just like the one you just put on, at the back corner over there.” You point with shaky fingers, cursing yourself for looking so stupid.

She nods and disappears further into the store, and you breathe out in relief.

Holy shit! Jenna Ortega!

You place a hand over your heart, reminding yourself to be normal and check if you’re still breathing.

“Uh-I’m sorry. I couldn’t find it. Where did you say?” She pops her head out from one of the shelves, cocking her head to the side.

You grab your bearings, determined to not make a fool of yourself.

You were an employee. Just an employee helping out a confused customer.

“It’s hard to find, believe me I know.” You smile reassuringly, sauntering over to where she was standing.

“Here, just follow me.” You say, weaving through the maze that was this tiny vinyl store.

She bumps into you a few times, saying a soft sorry as she does. You placate her worries with soft it’s okays everytime she does.

“Ahah! Right here. My pride and joy.” You beam, getting used to having her so close and relaxing.

“What would you recommend?” She muses, flicking through the artists.

“Well, I’m a Beatles girl myself,” You tell her, looking over the records, “but I am a sucker for The Mamas & The Papas.”

She raises an eyebrow at you, and you hold your hands up in defeat.

“I know, I know! I’m a mainstream whore.” You say before you can stop yourself, something definitely inappropriate to say to a customer.

Jenna lets out a little giggle, fast like she can’t help herself.

You take the opportunity to keep talking, since she seems interested in the music over here.

“But, there is another artist somewhere here, I think you’ll like.” You wink, then mentally face palm yourself.

You turn back to the records in order to hide your expression, finally finding the guy you were looking for.

“Frank Zappa.” You explain as you hand it over to her. “An instrumental.”

She looks at it thoughtfully, inspecting the album art; then looks up at you and smiles. Her brown eyes make you want to cry and scream, but you keep your composure.

“You have nice eyes.” She murmurs, eyes flickering over your face. Then, just as fast, she turns away and walks back the way you came.

“What just happened.” You breathe once she’s out of earshot, carefully walking back to the cashier.

She’s waiting, texting someone on her phone.

When you slide up behind the counter, all flirty smiles, she tilts her head.

“Took you long enough.” She teases, scrunching her nose in embarrassment unconsciously.

You stutter endlessly, trying and failing to come up with an excuse. It all comes out in one jumbled poor excuse of a sentence that you try to cover up with a cough.

You slide her things over and scan them, not daring to look at her probably smug face.

“That’s all.” You say, somewhat bashfully, stealing a glance back at her.

Her eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place, but something you can certainly feel. Warmth envelops you whole, your knees turning into jelly.

You put her stuff into a plastic bag, hand them over, and bite back the hitch of breath when your hand grazes hers.

She bites her lip thoughtfully, shifting on her feet. The bag is in her hands now, she’s free to leave.

But still, she stands there, looking like she’s thinking very hard about something.

You try and prompt her out of her thoughts, murmur a quiet, “Anything else?” and watches as she takes out her phone and pushes it to your side of the desk.

“Yeah. Your number.” She squeaks, blushing a faint pink. She clears her throat and says it again, in a tone deeper than before.

It takes absolutely everything in you to keep your mouth shut. It desperately desperately wants to drop, not quite computing what is really happening.

You take it before she can change her mind, quickly jamming in your number and taking a quick photo for the profile.

She beams as you hand it back to her, not bothering to stop the cheeky satisfied smile that wants to take over her lips.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” She asks, and you nod adamantly, forgetting all pretense of chill.

“Right. Uh huh. Super!” You call out as she makes her way out the door, shaking her head at your dorkiness.

“Holy shit!” You yell this time, breathing out a huge sigh of relief you didn’t even know you were holding.

You’re rooted to the spot, afraid that if you move you’ll wake up and this’ll all be a dream.

“Wha-What happened?” Harry comes tumbling out the back door, plastic baseball bat in hand.

You lock eyes with him and let yourself fall down into the nearest chair, all wild eyes.

“I just got Jenna Ortega’s number!” You tell him, letting your hands run through your hair, happy and stressed.

His eyes narrow, then he shoots you a lopsided smirk.

“Sure you did.” He says, letting the baseball bat fall beside him, guard down.

“No Harry, she really came in here! And asked me for my number!” You yell, exasperated.

You can tell he doesn’t really believe you, but all it takes is one good look at your face, all white and red at the same time, and he’s widening his eyes comically wide.

“No fucking way.” He gushes, sliding over to sit beside you. He practically preens over you, all questioning eyes.

“Well what did you do?” He pushes, waiting for you to elaborate.

You tell him the whole story, slightly reveling in his reactions. He never fails to make you laugh at his comments.

“So…what now?” Harry asks after a minute, raising his eyebrows.

You sigh. “I don’t know, I guess I’m gonna have to wait for her to call me. Who knows how long that’s gonna take.”

“Well, you better be ready for her when she does. Oh my god we so need to do a makeover.” He rambles, turning on his phone to look at hairdressers nearby. You lean back into your chair, overwhelmed.

For now, you’re worry-less. Jenna Ortega just asked for your number, and you think you couldn’t be luckier. The only thing to do now was wait, and so you do.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Devil in a Dark Wood

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader Historical AU

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): Witch AU, Historical AU, early colonial America, Puritanism, biblical themes & scripture, suggestive themes, brief descriptions of injury, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, brief descriptions of sex, horror/suspense

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Requested by @ferns-fics for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Witch AU) A/N (2): Enjoy my religious trauma!

Arriving to new shores a married woman, you find happiness with the man you're betrothed to without ever first meeting him. But beyond the place you call home is a dark wood. And in that dark wood, something waits for the perfect opportunity.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Pendle, Massachusetts, Late April, 1662

The earth speaks to you.

Back home, the ground is alive with the song of faeries, elves dwell within the trees, and kelpies call from the waters. Nature is alive there. A buzzing that wraps around all living things.

But it is different here in the New World.

Here—there is an echo. There are no nymphs. No sweet songs to lull the wayward wanderer into dancing.

There are teeth here. Teeth in the dirt. Teeth in the bark of the trees.

And a thrumming.

A thrumming that sounds like a thunderous heartbeat.

You hear your name. It is called like a command by a stern, male voice. Eyes opening, you disconnect from the unyielding noise of the ground, and focus on the man in front of you.

A man of the cloth. Reverend Shepherd—if the letter in your haversack is correct.

There is no smile on his face but a sternness etched into every crease and wrinkle. His mouth is a thin line turned downwards, with a balding head, and a slight swell to his belly that reminds you of the one your father grew when he began favoring drink.

Your father.

The reason you’re here.

The reason you stand on the very edge of the New World a newly married woman.

"Reverend Shepherd?" you ask, inclining your head in submission.

The motion is painful. You are not like him. You are not like the people who have settled here. You were raised to be wild and barefoot. Raised by a woman who taught you to listen. To put your ear to the ground. To sense the world sitting just on the other side.

“Child,” he says, gaze narrowing. “Your hair.”

Frowning, you reach up. Some of your hair pokes out from beneath your white cap. “Pray pardon me,” you murmur, discreetly tucking it back.

“I am Reverend Shepherd,” he confirms with a brief nod. “I bid you welcome to Pendle.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“And the journey?”

“Pleasant,” you reply, keeping your gaze downcast. “Calm seas.”

“A blessed crossing then. God’s favor came with you. Pray that it stays.”

Your stomach twists at the jab. It is clear what Reverend Shepherd means. You are an outsider. An unknown factor. A disciple that he believes may not fall in line. God’s chosen are already here, and you do not belong.

“Are you to be my escort?”

“Indeed,” he sighs as if the notion bothers him. “And we have much yet to walk. God favors a quick step. We best be off.”

Clutching the haversack to your chest, you nod. “Of course, Reverend.”

This is just an exchange, a way for your father to rid himself of you and to pay off his drinking debts. Your father is no man of God. Wives are needed in the New World. The crown paid handsomely to bring you and other women to these shores.

Grief is a sour thing.

It is a weight upon the living.

Your mother, a woman so wonderful that the world couldn’t contain her, sent herself up to the stars, leaving you with only your father for company.

He is just a man.

Simple. Kind.

And then a poison.

Grief wove its way between bone and blood until he no longer wanted to see your face. The remembrance pained him. And that pain led to long nights away, only for him to return with liquor on the breath and empty pockets.

It is why you were sent away, why you were sent far across the sea. Sold off to a husband you’ve never met. All because of a man who cannot control his grief.

How will your memory be written?

Are you simply your father’s daughter in the King’s ledger? Not even a name. Just…daughter.

Perhaps. That is how it is after all. A history of a woman is rarely written.

Reverend Shepherd turns away and starts walking. You almost slip in the mud as you follow. He passes the docks, moving further away from the center of Pendle.

“Are we not to stay in town?”

“In town?” Reverend Shepherd’s frown deepens. “No, child. Your husband lives beyond the township.”

“How far, pray tell? Are we not to take horses?” you ask, a little breathless.

Reverend Shepherd scoffs. "Why should you require such a convenience? Walking allows for reflection and penance. Do you know your prayers?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“Child?” prompts Reverend Shepherd.

“I do,” you nearly bite out.

“Let me hear them. A good wife can recite the Lord’s prayers when prompted. Scripture will help us pass the time.”

As the two of you walk, your voice becomes monotone, reciting but not listening. Every word is like an empty scallop shell. Mud sucks at your boots, threatening to relieve you of your shoes. Reverend Shepherd remains ahead. Never slowing down. Always keeping a few paces forward.

“Good,” says Reverend Shepherd. “Now, I shall begin and you shall continue. I have no master but You. Now law but Your—”

“You’ve yet to speak of my husband,” you interrupt, frustration growing by the lack of information.

It’s not in you to be obedient, especially around bothersome men.

Reverend Shepherd turns abruptly, the middle of his brow creased in severe displeasure. “Prayer, child. I have no master—”

“His name, Reverend. At least allow me that.”

“Disobedience of woman is an act against God. Your father assured me of your obedience. Of your purity and piety. Is he mistaken?”

Yes. I do not belong here.

“He is not,” you mutter.

Reverend Shepherd holds your gaze until you turn yours downward. When he sets out again, you scowl at the back of his head, reciting perfectly all that you were taught before departing for different shores.

Outside Pendle, the road twists between clumps of trees. Farms stand between, but Reverend Shepherd stops at none of them. He rattles off scripture, keeping his back to you as he does so. It only dampens your mood.

"The Lord is my—"

At the bend in the road, you pause your recitations. A peaceful buzzing surfaces up from the ground, slithering into the soles of your feet, traveling upward into the crown of your head. A sturdy wooden fence lines the road, sectioning off the homestead from travelers. The main gate sits open, a dirt path leading inward toward the cottage. Corn lines the path, and you hear the gentle bleat of a goat in the distance.

Reverend Shepherd turns, his mouth pursed in annoyance.

"Pray pardon, Reverend," you say before the chastisement can leave his lips. "Is this..."

The irritation retreats slightly, his gaze turning passive. "Is it home? Indeed." Reverend Shepherd glances across the farmstead. "The Riley family owns this land. The eldest son, Simon, tends to it."

Simon.

Your husband's name.

Only a name. Nothing else.

The entire journey across the sea was rife with your swirling imagination. What kind of man did your father sell you off to? What might he look like?

Reverend Shepherd presses on. "The younger son lives in town."

You don't reply. It's best not to. Women are expected to be seen and not heard, and you have already overstepped your limits.

Following at the proper distance, you keep silent. Reverend Shepherd walks quickly, eager to be rid of you.

The thwack of an axe piercing wood echoes in the air, drowning out the bleating goats. You clutch the haversack against your chest, the weight of it finally catching up, arms heavy with the load. Reverend Shepherd moves with purpose, following the sound of the thwack and the subsequent clatter of splitting wood.

Beyond the cottage, divided by another wooden fence, is the forest. The trees are tall, towering over everything, pointing toward the grey sky like arrow points. From them, you hear whispers, faint and unclear. A soft chill cools your skin, and you shiver, the whispers disappearing as you and Reverend Shepherd walk around the side of the cottage.

The two of you come to a stop next to a large pile of wood.

Before you is a man with no shirt or doublet to be seen. His back is to the both of you, and your breath catches at seeing so much bare skin. Old scars mark his flesh, yet you're unsure if they're from some accident or from grislier means. The man's shoulders are broad, giving way to muscled arms and a tall frame. Of what you can observe, his figure is thick, honed from hard labor.

Lifting the axe above his head, he brings it down on the log in front of him. The wood splits cleanly.

"Simon." Reverend Shepherd's voice is smooth with authority.

At the sound of his voice, Simon straightens as if struck. Just his head turns, glancing over his shoulder, gaze sweeping over Reverend Shepherd and then landing on you. His eyes widen slightly, and then he fully pivots in your direction, giving you a clear view of his face.

Simon has scars here but they only add to his features. He is handsome with a strong jaw and prominent nose, and his eyes are a golden brown that remind you of sun rays through amber. The hair on his head is slightly askew from the gentle wind.

"Reverend," greets Simon.

While your husband addresses Shepherd, his gaze is entirely fixed on you. There is no smile, but there isn't a frown. You're unsure of Simon's first impression or what he might be thinking.

"Your wife arrived."

Reverend Shepherd makes you out to be little more than an object. A thing delivered.

"Thank you for escorting her here," replies Simon. "Had I known, I would have fetched her myself."

Reverend Shepherd holds up a hand. "Think nothing of it. The Lord values hard work, and her delivery is but His reward for all you do."

The corner of Simon's mouth twitches. He's still holding on to the axe. "Allow me to see you off, Reverend."

"I can see myself. A blessed day to you, Simon. And to an... easy marriage."

Easy. Obedient. Subservient.

You are to bow your head and grovel at your husband's feet for the rest of your days.

"God go with you, Reverend," replies Simon, taking a step forward in your direction.

The two of you silently watch Reverend Shepherd disappear beyond the cottage and down the path. Neither of you speaks, the air heavy with an unresolved tension. The wind kicks up, and you smell pine. A goat bleats, and you shift on your feet.

"Good morrow, Simon," you murmur, arms tightening around the haversack.

Simon blinks, shoulders relaxing, a warm smiling spreading across his face. It's genuine—full of kindness. Even the edges of his cheeks darken with color.

"Good morrow," he replies. "I—" He glances down at himself. "Forgive me. My appearance is unbecoming. Not how a husband greets his wife upon their first meeting."

You take in all the exposed skin and an itch forms in the tips of your fingers. A carnal desire floods upward, seizing your heart and mind. The urge you feel begs you to touch, to step forward and run your hands over that slick flesh. This man is your husband now. He belongs to you as much as you belong to him.

The Reverend would beat these thoughts out of you if he could read your mind.

But he cannot. The Good Reverend isn't here.

And your husband is half-undressed and blushing before you.

"Unexpected," you say slowly. "But nice."

His blush deepens.

Perhaps God has sent you someone you can be yourself with. Not completely,as any mention of the voices from the trees or the teeth in the ground would send you straight to a pyre, but someone who might listen. Truly, kindness and patience are all you want. If Simon is that, then you'll be happy.

Flustered further, Simon glances around like he can't quite look at you. Running his fingers through his hair with his free hand, he finally settles, resting the axe against the stump.

"I should bathe," he says, but not in response to you, more like he's simply speaking to the air.

You take a step forward, moving toward him, taking in more of his muscles. It is clear he has not been without. His largeness isn't from hard labor alone. Simon is eating well and often.

"Allow me." In seconds, Simon is before you, hands grasping the haversack.

"Thank you," you murmur softly as he tucks your belongings under his arm like it weighs nothing at all.

"Would you like to stay here? I won't be long."

"Where are you off to?"

Simon heads for the cottage and you follow. "Just on the other side of the fence is a stream."

You glance beyond the fence line. "May I join you?"

Somehow, Simon's face grows brighter. "I—join me?"

"The ship—"

"Of course," he says quickly. "I imagine there are few opportunities to bathe aboard a vessel. Fewer even for privacy."

You follow Simon to the door of the cottage. He enters but you linger a moment, hesitation halting your momentum.

Like a thunderous stampede, reality comes crashing down around you. There is no ship take you back. No mornings spent in the mist. This place is your home now, this man responsible for you until your death or his.

Simon emerges, shirt on but doublet unbuttoned. In his arms is a small basket. "This way," he says with a grin.

At the back of the property, Simon opens up a small gate and leads you to the stream. The forest is just beyond. Now that you're closer to the towering trees, that thrumming from earlier returns, and a sense of gnashing as if a wolf nips at your heels comes with it. Your gaze narrows as a dark shape moves between the trees. It is tall, and at first, you mistake it for another tree. Whispers rise up again, and is that—horns?

"I do not know your name."

You inhale sharply, hand pressed to your chest as Simon holds the small basket in front of him. You tell him, and then glance back at the forest.

"Something amiss?" he asks, matching your stare.

"No—I." You lick your lips. "The forest feels strange."

Simon nods. "It is. Most avoid it."

"Do you?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. Rosie always wanders off. Wish she'd just go down the road to John's but she favors the forest."

"Rosie?"

Simon laughs. "Apologies. Rosie is one of the goats."

"I see," you giggle.

"She’s a sweet thing. Sanderson favors her."

"Is that another goat?" you ask with a smile, reaching back to untie your apron.

"It is. John gave him to me as a kid. Raised him myself. He's a strong buck now. Hates everyone but me." He shrugs, and then leans forward as if to tell you a juicy secret. "Once bit Reverend Shepherd in the arse."

You burst out laughing, and then quickly cover your mouth. "I should not. God will punish me."

Simon's grin is wide and sweet. "In death, maybe. But as your husband, it's my responsibility to punish you."

"And pray tell, what would befit such a punishment?" you tease, undoing the buttons of your waistcoat.

Simon's smile falters, his gaze lingering on your chest. Your waistcoat hangs open, and the ties at the top of your shift are loose, revealing bare skin. Simon swallows, clearly enraptured by this small reveal of flesh.

A nervousness slips in, but it's not fear. A desire swirls low in your belly, a feeling you haven't felt since you were a young woman and a village boy you favored gifted you flowers.

This is your husband. He will know all of you eventually. You will share the same bed and give him as many children as your body is capable of. There is no need to be nervous.

"Simon?" you prompt, removing your waistcoat.

He coughs, clears his throat. "You're correct. The forest is strange. You are not to go in unless I'm with you." His change in demeanor briefly startles you.

"Is it dangerous?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. But folks in town are…fearful of what they don't understand. I don't want—I don't want anyone believing things about you that aren't true."

Witch.

"Why would they?" you whisper.

Witch.

"There's a tree,” continues Simon. “Large. Dark bark. Not like any other tree in the forest. At least none that we've seen. Reverend Shepherd and his wife wanted it cut down. Said it was a sign of the Devil. But Pendle's blacksmith took axe to tree. The blade broke upon impact. Not a scratch on the bark." Simon sighs and offers you soap from the basket. "Rosie tends to wander near it."

"Woods always hold strange things. Might be a nearby plant she likes chewing on."

"Perhaps. But I'll go after her if she does. It's not a place for you."

The water in the stream is incredibly clear, flowing steadily. Simon produces two washing cloths, offering you one before taking his, dipping it into the stream. It is not truly bathing, but it is refreshing, the cool water a calming entity against the slight burning beneath your skin.

There is silence afterward, and once clean, the two of you return to the cottage. Simon shows you your new home, already built to accommodate a family. There is a small barn for the animals, and coop for the chickens. You meet Rosie, an all-white beauty that constantly chews on your apron. Sanderson is big, black beast of a buck with grey horns curled backward and away from his head with eyes so pale they’re almost white.

Sanderson does not bite you, but he follows Simon around the homestead, lightly tapping Simon’s outer thigh with his horn like he wants attention.

The first night—that very night—Simon does not touch you. At least, not at first. He allows you your space, keeping his distance. But he observers silently, his gaze lingering on those flashes of bare skin. There is nothing harmful in his gaze, only a deep appreciation, and a longing you can’t quite place.

From what you were told to prepare you for this moment, you expect Simon to flop on top of you. For you to remain silent and still. To thank him afterward whether or not you enjoyed yourself.

Simon is patient. He is gentle. And above all, kind.

“May I touch you?”

You slip into bed in nothing but your shift. Simon is without, only wearing loose breeches that have seen better years.

You curl up next to Simon, facing him. Reaching out, Simon’s fingers lightly brush the curve of your bottom lip and then your jaw. Descending, his fingers find your throat. Then collarbone. He traces the neckline of your shift, and then his fingers tangle in the ties at the front, pulling them loose until your shift opens further.

“Do I tread too far?” he asks, softly.

His touch is awakening something. You sense a tingling, coiling outward.

“No,” you reply. “Continue.”

Simon’s hand slips between shift and your body. His palm is warm, and then he’s guiding it over one shoulder, exposing it to the cool air. Leaning in, Simon’s lips press to the curve of the joint. It is a small thing, but this one bit of contact causes you to shiver, for the tingling to further travel outward.

As he draws back, you tilt your head. Then it is Simon kissing you, and you accepting him. He is not forceful here. There is no claiming. It is exploration, and you find yourself reaching out, hands gliding over his chest.

He is all hardness, and yet nothing about him terrifies. Strength resides within him, but he is ever so gentle. Taking his time. Savoring.

The shift lowers as Simon pulls it downward. He palms one breast, and you gasp, breaking the kiss.

With a soft groan, Simon’s head dips, trailing kisses along your neck, moving over collarbone, descending down until his mouth explores the valley between your breasts, and then further still.

The tingling explodes outward into the tips of your fingers and toes. You are buzzing—the restlessness of the world coming with you.

The shift is over your hips. Down your thighs.

Gone.

Utterly gone.

Your legs part as Simon continues to trail kisses downward. His hands squeeze your thighs, and then he’s kissing you between your legs, lingering there as the buzzing ascends into a crackling that sucks all air from your lungs.

“Simon,” you gasp, fisting his hair.

He abruptly lifts his head, lips shiny in the light of the hearth. “Have I harmed you?”

Harmed you? No. Hardly.

“No,” you gasp. “I—this is unexpected.”

Simon places a kiss to the inside of your thigh before leaning on an elbow. “My understanding came from observing the farm animals.” A small smile spreads across his face. “But after service one Sunday, Reverend Shepherd rounded up all the unwed men. Told us the King was sending us wives.”

“Were you happy when he told you?”

“No,” chuckles Simon, absently stroking your thigh. “I was scared.”

“And now?”

“Still scared.”

“Do I terrify you?”

Simon gives a small shake of his head. “No. I am scared of how my heart feels.” You gently place your hand against his cheek. Simon turns into the touch. “Reverend Shepherd explained. Made this sound like a duty. A chore.” He sighs. “But I do not see how.”

Shifting, Simon drapes himself over you, gaze intense. “My heart is full but my mind is confused. God demands duty but I see no duty here.” He closes the distance, lips brushing over yours. “A wife is not a chore.”

Your fingers find the band of his breeches. They surrender easily under your touch. Legs widening, Simon settles between. There is a small tangle—a clumsy back and forth as the two of you adjust. It stings at first, but quickly fades, leaving you boneless as your bodies meet repeatedly.

You whisper his name, and Simon groans yours.

He shudders, burying his face against your next. Warmth and wetness blooms in your womb. You tangle yourself around him, holding Simon close.

Inside your chest, something cracks. Splits. Fractures.

Part of you believes it is just this moment between husband and wife, but a whisper runs beneath, and a slithering like that of a serpent. The forest is creeping in—pushing in. Making room where there is none.

But it is quick, and it is fleeting.

It is after the first night that the two of you truly begin to explore. Simon starts with simple touches, and you accept them all, wanting to understand to be close to someone. He is happy you’re here with him, and you’re happy to be his.

Unlike the rest of the men in town, Simon listens, and values your opinion. His jokes are terrible, and his willingness to subvert and ignore Reverend Shepherd’s doctrine makes him the pariah. The only time the two of you make it into town is for Sunday service, and while townsfolk are friendly, they don’t interact with him unless they have to.

Between it all, you help out on the farm, tending to the animals, and whispering sweet encouragement to the crops when Simon isn’t looking. They all flourish under your care, the land bountiful and beautiful. When others suffer, you and Simon’s land remains strong and steadfast. He is quick to share in the wealth—to take care of others.

A home is built.

Love flourishes.

And for three years, life is peaceful.

The forest hardly whispers. The teeth do not gnash. There is quiet in the wood, and you see no glance of horns.

Simon's hand rests upon your stomach. He turns on his side, pressing a kiss to a spot just above your navel. As he descends, you playfully shove his head away.

"I cannot," you laugh. "I am sore everywhere."

Simon grins and then pushes up, stealing a kiss before rolling over you and heading to the mantel above the hearth. Retrieving his bible, Simon returns, settling back in beside you. The leather cover is worn in places.

His gaze takes in your nakedness. “Stay like that for me.”

You are uncovered and bare before him. Simon’s seed rests heavy between your thighs.

Opening the bible does not result in reading scripture. Simon picks up a charcoal stick. Turning the bible vertically, Simon starts to sketch.

Neither of you read from it. There is nothing to be read. The pages are covered with Simon’s sketches. Most of them are of you—of pieces of you—even the place that is well-loved even now. There are less lewd images etches across the parchment. All of the animals are there. So is the cottage.

If someone—anyone—were to discover these drawings, they’d blame you.

A hex. A curse. A spell.

You have turned him from God.

But Simon doesn’t think so, and you care not. God has given you nothing but this man. Everything the two of you are is only because of the effort and love the two of you have brought. God did nothing but drop you at Simon’s feet.

You thank Him for it, but nothing else. And if that will send you into hellfire, then that is where you will reside.

In silence, you observe your husband. Simon’s gaze darts from the page to you and back again. His bottom lip is between his teeth, and the middle of his brow is creased with concentration. You remain as you are until he turns the bible around to show you.

There you are, sketched over a page of Leviticus.

“Your talents are lost on farming.”

Simon chuckles and then he closes the bible, placing it upon the small bedside table before returning to you. His hands explore, reaching. Then you're opening again, allowing him in.

Sleep is peaceful, and Simon does not wake you in the morning when he leaves to check on the animals.

It is his firm hand shaking you awake.

“Simon?” You rub at your eyes, yawning.

“Rosie is gone.”

“Again,” you groan, digging around in the bedding to find your discarded shift. “That’s the third time this week, Simon.” Finding it, you slip it over your head, retrieving your stockings.

“Keep finding her near the tree.”

A whisper of a voice brushes against your ear and you swat at it like a pesky fly.

You frown. “All three times?”

Simon sighs, and nods. “I’ll go for a look.” Kissing the top of your head, Simon retrieves his musket. “Be back before supper.”

Simon does not come back before supper.

The food grows cold.

And when it’s entirely dark, and the whispers from the wood become overwhelming, you take a lantern, and rush up to road to John Price’s homestead.

John takes a horse to town. Returns with a small party of men.

“It’s best you not go with us. Won’t know what we’ll find.”

“He’s my husband, John. I’m going.”

With lanterns lit, and hunting dogs are your heels, you enter the woods.

The moon is swallowed up as if eaten by a beast, plunging everything around you into utter darkness. The only light you have is that of your lantern and of the other lanterns carried by the menfolk.

And yet, it does not seem like enough.

The darkness here is eternal, and all around you is a dreadful silence.

“Simon!”

“Can you hear us, Simon!”

The only response is the echoing of your collective voices. No insect buzzing. No owls hoot. Nothing scurries underfoot. Even the leaves and twigs you step on are absent of sound.

The forest is consuming, eating away all noise until the only thing you hear are the thoughts in your head.

At the back of the pack, you do not see the tree. Don’t hear the cries for help.

It isn’t until John is approaching you, urging you away that you know something is wrong. Dreadfully and utterly wrong.

There are teeth in the New World. Teeth in the ground.

Jaws. A maw.

It has eaten your heart.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Licked the tips of its fingers.

The forest has devoured. Consumed your husband for a meal.

Reverend Sheperd prays for three days over Simon's body. When he leaves, the women gather around you. Each day, one or two depart, and by the end of the second week, there is no one but you holding vigil.

Simon does not stir though his breathing remains steady. The town likely whispers of the Devil's work, that Simon's long sleep is a curse.

Do they blame you?

Perhaps.

Maybe.

You cannot form enough resolve to care what the townspeople think. If they do blame you, they'd have to drag you from your home by the hair. You’ll draw blood and break bone if anyone attempts to remove you from Simon’s side.

Tucking the blanket in, you curl up next to your husband, cheek resting against his shoulder. He smells of the forest—damp leaves, crushed berries, and sharp pine. Breathing deep, you commit your husband's scent to memory.

Life is a fragile, fickle thing. The thought of growing old here, of giving Simon children, of watching them grow and have families of their own filled you with such purpose again after your father’s betrayal. It is not the future you expected for yourself, but it is the one you’ve found happiness with.

"Come back to me," you murmur, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. They fall, dampening Simon's skin. "Come back, my love. Come back."

Simon remains silent and still.

Night arrives and then departs, bringing the morning with it. No one comes to visit. No one comes to check on either of you. Responsibility is on your shoulders now. Without your guiding hand, the farm will fall into decay, the fencing will rot, weeds will overtake the crops, and animals will starve. A part of you wants to hand it over to God, to allow him to lead.

But God did not protect your husband. He looked away, leaving Simon to his fate.

A deep sigh escapes you, gracing the air with your accepted reluctance. Slowly, you lift your head from Simon's shoulder. He has not changed in these two weeks. Without food or water, Simon should show signs of wasting. But there is no hint there is anything amiss.

"I will fix this," you say, addressing Simon as if he'll answer.

You rest your palm against the side of his face. Warmth radiates from him, but your touch does not rouse him from his sleep.

A sharp howl pierces the air.

It is not a wolf or dog. This sounds like agony. Like despair. Like a dark creature pulling itself from the earth.

Turning abruptly toward the door, every limb solidifies, turning your blood to stone.

Something is out there. Something that does not belong.

Slipping on your shoes, you creep toward Simon's hunting musket. Grasping it, you reach for the blackpower and musket balls, preparing it like Simon showed you. The howl ceases, but your blood remains chilled like morning frost. The hunting musket is heavy, and the sweat in your palms makes holding it difficult. You can hardly keep it upright.

Grasping it, you hold it in the way he showed you, heading for the door. Pressing your ear to the door, you hear nothing. Not a sound.

Reaching out, you unlatch the door, guiding it open just enough to point the barrel outward and to glimpse the morning.

Nothing stirs. Nothing moves but the tall grass and the corn stalks.

Opening the door wider, you cautiously step outside. Your gaze scans the dirt. No footprints of animal or man.

The air vibrates, and beneath your feet, you sense a creeping static. Tilting your head, you listen—not with your ears but with all your senses, tapping into the ground like your mother taught you.

A tug comes. A gentle pull that lulls your attention leftward.

You take a step in the direction of the feeling, the creeping static intensifying until it suddenly disappears, as if pulled from existence.

"Child." The voice—no, voices—speak with two tongues. "How fares thy husband?"

Turning slowly, you glimpse not man or animal but a combination of the two. The creature stands at nearly twice your height on two cloven hooves. Its head is that of a black goat with red eyes and horns so dark they resemble the night sky. Draped in black robes, and hands clasped in front, you notice they aren't hands at all.

Not human hands, but claws. Talons. Long and spindly like thin twigs.

"Devil," you whisper, because what else could this creature be but a servant of Satan.

The creature only blinks. "To the Good Reverend Shepherd and his flock, I am devil and demon," it says, imitating the voice of the stern religious leader. Switching back to its natural voice, the creature continues. "To others, a guardian. A friend. A god."

You aim the firing end toward the creature. "How do you know of my husband?”

"He came to my tree looking for his goat." The creature’s head cocks to the side as if listening for something. “Rosie. That is the name he called before all went silent.”

The tree.

The one made of dark bark.

The one that breaks the axe on first strike.

"Was it you that harmed him?" you accuse, voice shaking. Sweat pools in your palms, the metal of the musket slippery in your hand.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" it purrs.

“Answer me! Was it you that put hands upon my husband?”

"It is not Godly to accuse thy neighbor of treachery when proof is lacking.”

"But you don't deny it?" you snap.

The creature is silent for a long moment as if frozen in ice. “No,” it finally says. "I did not cull your husband.”

"Who?" When he doesn't answer, you ask again. "Who?"

“A man of flesh.”

“Which man?”

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" the creature repeats, the dual voices reverberating in your chest.

“Answer me, demon. Or be gone.”

“Does my appearance offend?” it asks slowly. “You…puritans seem bent on burning.” It unclasps its spindle-fingers. “Would you prefer a change?”

"Whether devil or guardian or beast, my ears do not wish to hear more. Be gone."

"No."

No.

Startled, you hesitate. And then your resolve bleeds back into bone. Raising the weapon higher, you plant your feet into the ground, squaring your shoulders. "I said—"

The creature raises its hand, palm upward, forming a fist. The barrel of the weapon bends skyward. Fires. Smoke and ash fill the air.

Blinded, you cry out, falling upon the ground, arm over your eyes protectively. The musket falls from your arms.

"Again, child," comes its voice—a whisper in your ear. "Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You swing your arm outward and only meet air. With a touch of hysteria, you swipe your arms out and around you, expecting to meet solid flesh.

There is nothing. Nothing.

"Be calm, child. Calm."

Chest heaving, you blink through the pain, searching for the house.

Simon. You need to go to him. To protect him.

The world is in color but it is fuzzy. Unclear. The dirt beneath your palms is rough as you crawl, digging into your skin, stinging until you know blood blooms in the wounds.

"Go away," you whisper. The creature does not answer. "Leave. Leave my husband and I in peace."

As your vision clears, a dark shape steps in front of you. The creature towers, hands outstretched placatingly. "Listen, child. Listen."

"Simon," you whisper, every limb shaking as you try to push yourself up to a seated position.

"God abandoned Simon. Abandoned you."

Your arms give out, and you collapse. With every remaining morsel of resolve, you start to drag yourself through the dirt.

"Simon."

"A shadow darkens your door. Not that of any devil—but of human suspicion. Townsfolk consume gossip like plague consumes a newborn babe."

Dirt collects under your nails.

“Suspicion. Godly suspicion. Devil-spun no doubt but by human tongue.”

You drag yourself a little further.

“Witch.”

“Leave us,” you murmur, voice weak and cracked.

Your vision clears a bit more—the sting receding. It is enough to push up to your knees.

“I hear all,” the creature says. “No wooden board or stone or packed dirt can hide a whispered word.”

Witch.

Witch.

“There is nothing the Godly despise more than a woman alone in the world.”

Its words cut deep. They tear into you, ripping out the dreaded truth. The townsfolk will lay blame. And what a perfect perpetrator you are. Why would Simon Riley, one of their own flock, befall such a fate unless someone had done it to him.

Witch.

On shaky legs, you face the creature before you. Its red eyes have softened. Pity rests there, and you do not know what to make of it.

The goat head shifts, gaze moving to somewhere within the house. You glance behind you and only see the open door. When you glance back, the creature is gone.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You spin and find the goat standing inside the doorway. He's too large to fit. He's bent in half, peering out at you.

"Get out of my home, demon."

It only blinks, and steps out of view. You rush toward the door, charging inside, finding no one. The room spins as you head for Simon. All you want is to be beside him. If this is a punishment, then so be it, but you will weather it at his side.

Kneeling beside your bed, you grasp Simon’s hand. You bring it to your lips, placing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I'm seeing things, Simon," you whisper.

Spindle-fingers slide over your shoulder, the creature’s palm coming to rest against the joint. It is no hallucination. There is no iciness, but warmth. Not hot—not an inferno as Reverend Shepherd always preaches—but a comforting one. Like a burning hearth in the middle of winter.

Closing your eyes, you listen.

There is no static. What assails your senses is this creature’s age. There are stars and dust in his aura—of sleeping beneath mountains—of a time before trees when there were only teeth.

“I can heal him,” comes its two-toned voice. “Make him whole.”

In this, you hear the truth. There are no lies. The words weave around you, spinning and encasing you like angel wings.

“Pray tell me, stranger. What price for such an offer?”

“Stranger,” muses the creature. “Thou hast named me.”

“What price?” you prompt.

A beat.

“You.”

“Me?”

Stranger bends until it’s crouched next to you. “I shall heal your husband. Ward him from harm and illness. He will live to an old age. Pass peacefully in his sleep.”

“A nice thought,” you murmur, gazing on Simon’s face.

“But in return, you shall come with me.”

You turn to face Stranger. It gazes at you intently, waiting for a response. As you peer into its red depths, something dark—tentacle-like—slithers in the red and promptly disappears.

“I have nothing to offer.”

Removing its twig-like claws from your shoulder, it presses the point of one to your forehead. At contact, the air comes alive, coursing through vein and bone until your skin glows with a deep radiance of brilliant white light.

“A blessing doth dwell,” its two voices sing. The power surges and then recedes as Stranger removes its claw. “Join me. Be my bride. Walk the forests.”

“Agreements are not freely given. I come from a world where the Fae walk. Bargains favor wing and wit. Not mortal flesh.”

“I am Elder,” purrs Stranger. “Trickery is foul tasting.”

“But after you heal him? After I agree to go with you? What then?”

“You shall see him not. Never know his touch. All memory of you will be erased. He nor the townsfolk will remember you. A hint, maybe. A feeling. But it shall always slip away.”

A life without Simon. A life without his gentle touches and drawings by candlelight. You will bear him no children. Never again enjoy the carnal rite that is your most sacred vow.

Yet, he will live.

Simon will thrive.

You detect no deception. The air is still and calm. No tension.

“What must I do?”

Stranger turns and you follow its gaze.

Upon the table is a large book. Ornate. Shiny. Gold-plated. Open.

You swallow. “I’m…poor with my letters.”

“It needs not names but blood. Just a drop.” Stranger elongates. Still too small for the space, it bends its upper half to accommodate, its back scraping against the ceiling. “Sign the book,” he prompts.

“Forgive me, Simon.”

Pressing your lips to the back of Simon’s hand, you send forth a silent prayer. Pushing up, and leaning over him, you place a second kiss to his forehead. You breathe him in, infusing the memory until it resembles vines, tangling the essence of Simon into your brain.

Retreating, you offer up your palm, splaying your fingers in extension.

Stranger gently takes it, bringing it over the golden book.

Pointed claw meets human flesh.

A sharp sting.

A pause.

A bead of blood wells.

Hovering. Hovering.

Then—

The dark bead lingers on the blank page.

Silence.

And then a sucking sound as the parchment absorbs the blood.

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[fanaticsnail]

First Time: Wire

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word Count: 5,700+

Themes: Wire x afab!reader, first time, mdni, 18+, smut, NSFW, drinking, partying, fingering, coaching, feelings, plot, lengthy fic, virginity loss, Dom Wire behaves a little subby in some moments.

Notes: This one got out of hand and ran away with me. I hope you fall in love along the way with the big commander. This fic is dedicated to @a-killer-obsession who's work had me initially catch feelings for the big guy. I hope you enjoy this fic!

What started as a night of relaxing and making merriment with your crew, turned into a half-hazardly concocted drinking game between the entirety of the crew serving aboard the Victoria Punk. Ales sloshing lazily, laughs echoed throughout the canopies and draped curtains making their large booth private to the public eye. Although their space was secluded, many would not be able to drown out the uproarious hilarity springing between the easy rapport of the crew.

“Never have I ever been pegged,” a crewmate suggested, resulting in laughs and many of the crew taking hefty swigs.

“Never have I ever engaged in pet play: whether owner or pet,” another suggestion prompted a large assortment of your crewmates drinking their fill while laughing. You peered down into your tankard with a forlorn expression written on your face.

While you loved your crew, and enjoyed raising hell and creating mayhem wherever you docked, you truly haven't done any of these things. A small, romantic kiss on the cheek was all you ever received before taking up arms and bending the knee to Eustass Kid as your captain.

The crew was friendly enough, and one of them would’ve indulged you if you'd asked them to, but there was one thing holding you back from ever expressing it.

They were all so experienced, and you were afraid you'd mess it up.

“Never have I ever fucked in public,” more merriment and drinks sloshed over the brims and into the mouths of your friends. “Never have I ever cried in relief during or after sex.” A surprising number of crewmates raised their cups to their lips, or drank from their straws between pursed lips. “Never have I ever been overstimulated and forced to have multiple orgasms in a single session.”

While the game continued on, you continued peering down into your beverage and glared at the contents, never falling even lower than a butterfly’s wing. The only time you managed to take a sip was before the content became raunchy, and even that was tame.

At a gruff call of your name, you snap your head over towards your captain.

“Not drinkin’?” Kid cackled at you, “Either you ain't hearin’ half of this shit because you're lost in ya’ mind, or,” Kid leaned forward in his seat, a challenging twinkle lurking beneath his smudged eyeliner, “You're not half as adventurous as the lot of us in the bedroom.”

This garnered a large uproar at your expense, a fluster rising in your chest and causing your face to swell with heat. Breath hitching, you could barely speak to your defense before your stoic defender snatched the tankard from your hand.

“Thanks for holding my sixth for me, sweetheart,” Wire took up your cup and rose it to his lips, taking a small swig from the rim, “I know you've already finished your two, but I appreciate you takin’ care of me.”

Wire raised the tankard to his lips and took a hefty swig from the lip of the container. Upon returning to his regular stature, he swayed in his rhythm, and a little spilled some of the contents within the container on the ground beneath him.

“Fuck, I-I think I’ve had a bit too much,” he slurred his speech, hooking his arms on your shoulders and pressing his cheek to the crown of your head, “Take me home, would you? See you lot back at the ship when you stumble on home.”

You looked to your captain who clicked his tongue before waving you off, dismissing the two of you for the night. You hastily braced the towering form of the giant dwarfing you, ensuring his body was flush with your own while you aided him in his stupor towards the door.

Upon meeting the outdoor air, you sucked in its freshness and took a moment to truly satisfy your senses before fully preparing yourself to take the larger man towards home once more.

“Easy does it, Wire,” you encouraged him, slowly attempting to aid him in his motions with every step. “Just walk with me, commander. Mirror my steps with yours.”

Each stuttered step he took was marred with a lazy stupor. His body clung to yours as if it was the only tether anchoring him to the earth. With every foot forward you placed on the footpath, Wire would attempt to place one of his own: only succeeding in rolling his ankle and staggering every step he took.

Finally reaching the commander’s quarters, you aided him to sit on his bed while drawing his curtains to a close. While you and the commander were not as practiced in this routine, you wanted him to be as set up as he could be while experiencing a moment of weakness.

Reaching down, you claimed one of his boots in your hands, followed immediately by the other as you placed him into his bed. While he sat up on his mattress, you unfastened the brass buckle of his cloak and gently rolled it away from his shoulders in a bid to aid him in his comfort.

The taller man furrowed his brows as you aided in his night ritual, peering intently at you in awe of your next move.

He witnessed your every action while he allowed you to take care of him on the way back to the Punk. Every kindness, every soft moment, every smile while you guided him home had been a large change to his usual company. It had been so long since he experienced such sweetness, he had no clue as to what to do with it.

Just as you managed to hook his cloak on the hook and reach for his sleep-slacks and readying him more for slumber, as you would your own, a firm hand circled your wrist and held you steady. He placed your hands back inwards of yourself gently with a small smile.

“Never mind me, love,” he softly whispered, releasing your wrist and giving it two soft taps in response. “I'm alright. I wanted to give you an out. Looked like you were uncomfortable with the conversation, and I didn't like seeing you with that unease. You can leave me and go back out, or get some sleep. I don't mind.”

Wire, as it turns out, straightened his spine immediately to sit upright and hold your eyes with his own. Rolling his neck on his shoulders, he hissed out with every click before satisfying his joints and holding himself firm.

“You-...” You halted your speech, peering at him with widened eyes and your lips gulping, “...You're sober?”

Wire couldn't help but chuckle, removing his meshed socks and leaving him in his harness and briefs while he readied himself for bed.

“Of course I'm sober. You think I can't handle six drinks in succession?” He shook his head gesturing down to himself, “Honestly. Look at me, bright eyes. One little drink is worth maybe a fifth of what I can hold in my person. Six is barely one to me.”

“Then what was with-?” You began, only halting once he chuckled over your question.

“-The little act? Please,” he shook his head, releasing him of his harness and reaching for his dark sleep-shirt beside his bed. “I… look, I don't want to be too forward here, so please halt me if I speak out of place.” Shrugging his dark shirt over his head, he snickered up at you.

“You hadn't touched your drink. I clocked it as soon as we began the little contest,” he gently carded his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “If I noticed it, it was only a matter of time until the captain did, and knowing him? He’d ask questions. Didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” you sigh out softly, “I-...” Peering down at your toes, you feel that somber wave come crashing over you, “...Thank you.”

“You ace, aro, uninterested, repulsed, or inexperienced?” Wire asked plainly, tugging at his shirt to adjust the wrinkles. “Being perfectly candid with you, there's nothing wrong with any of those answers. Just curious, is all. Go on. Humor me.”

“Inexperienced.”

“Oh?” he queried, tilting his head to the side and taking you in. “How inexperienced?”

The silence that followed that question was more than enough for Wire to place the pieces together. Slowly peering at you, he moved his dark eyes over your body up to your eyes that clearly avoided him.

“Do you want me to walk you through it?” he offered simply, offhanded as if he was implying for you to take an extra sandwich he prepared for himself in the kitchen. “Just one friend to another. If you're curious, that is.” He slowly turned away, his throat catching as the implications caught up with him.

“Not saying you need to. If you're perfectly content with remaining you are now, I just-...” Your eyes slowly rose to meet his understanding ones, your expression daring him to say more. “I just want to help. If you want me to, that is.”

You sniff out a small scoff with your eyes rolling at his suggestion, turning your head from him and facing the door. The shuffle of material indicated he was changing out of his hot pants into his sleep slacks, using the opportunity of your eyes no longer watching to do so.

“While I appreciate the offer, commander,” you offer with a subtle sneer, “I'd rather my first time not be out of pity, but because someone found me attractive.”

Reaching for the door and beginning to make your exit by turning the handle, you're cut short by a loud, shrill whistle cutting through the air sprung from the lips of the commander behind you.

“Oi,” he barks out coarsely, “Turn back around, would you?” Apprehensively removing your hand from the door, Wire orders you one more time before you're far enough from the door, “Lock it behind you. Trust me, we're both going to appreciate it.”

Doing as he's commanded you, you flick the latch locked before turning back around to slowly examine the commander with your eyes. Wire has one single brow cocked, peering up at you. Clad in only his fishnets and small briefs sans torso harness, he wriggled his index finger to beckon you in while patting the mattress.

“Come here,” he offered you, more as a small taunt than an order. Huffing out a growl, you saunter over and plop yourself onto his bed beside him. Reaching forward, Wire grasped your chin and slowly coaxed you towards him.

“Kiss me,” he suggested with a small smirk, tilting his head to the side and drawing in closer.

“I just said-.”

“-You wanted your first time to be with someone attracted to you,” he parotted your words back to you, arching his brows and offering you more of a smile in place of his smirk. “And I wouldn't ask you to kiss me if I didn't.”

“Commander-.”

“-Kiss me.”

Darting your eyes between his, you scrunch your nose up before slowly tilting your head and brushing his lips with your own. You watched as his eyes fluttered closed. His eyelashes brushed with your cheeks as he slowly guided each motion and roll of your lips seeping into his. You felt prompted to close your own, feeling completely in awe of how easily you two fell together.

Quickly giving yourself over to it, your mouth mirrored his movements, opening and parting with his to match. Wire pulled away, gently whispering against your lips while his hand relinquished its hold on your chin.

“Open.”

Unsure as to what he meant, you felt him lean in and softly pried your lips open with his own. His tongue darted out, seeking out yours and brushing against the muscle with his own. You felt your breath flee from your chest as his hands slowly drew down to your thighs and rubbed soothing circles against your body.

“Good,” he whispered his praise against your lips, gently tugging at your lips with his own while pulling away. “You've kissed me. Well done.” He lulled his head to the side, slowly drawing his palm up to cup your cheek within. “You're learning quite quickly.”

With a scoff and roll of your eyes, you swat his hand away and turn your head back towards the door. Wire follows your gaze, before turning back towards you and seeking your cheek out with his lips.

“You could leave,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek with a smile, “Or,” his lips traveled to your chin, the tickle of his facial hair tingling against your skin, “We can see where this goes.”

“Oh?” you snap back, turning your face to meet his with a look of intrigue. “And where do you see this going? Going to take my virginity, Wire? Kiss away the pain at the stretch and tell me it'll pass?”

Taken aback a little by your comment, Wire furrows his brows and darts his gaze around your face. Settling on your eyes, he curls his upper lip in response before offering you his rebuttal.

“One, I am quite fond of kisses, and would gladly offer you any affection you want whenever you want it,” he spoke with only truth found within his gruff rumble, “And two, if it hurts, I haven't done a good enough job of making you ready to take me, and will strive to do better.”

“What?” you ask cautiously. Wire slowly reaches for your hand, taking it in his own and rolling his thumb over the back of your knuckles.

“Sex can hurt the first time in some cases,” he nodded, reaching your hand up to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss against the back of your hand. “A slight pinch, a little sting at the stretch, but when properly prepared by a partner?” He turned your hand in his grip, pressing his lips to your palm, “Going slow with complete trust between you and me?”

He traveled his lips to your pulse, pressing a sweet kiss against the rapid rhythm coursing through your veins.

“The whole experience can be pleasurable.”

Hastily snatching back your hand again from his grip, his confusion was only temporary as you placed either palm beside his cheeks and drew him towards you. Your lips clashed with his, causing his breath to hitch as he allowed you to dominate and control each motion and movement.

Repeating the motions he'd pressed into you a few moments prior, his hands find your hips and gently guide you to straddle his waist. Your knees crawled forward, placing them either side of his hips without breaking the intense kiss.

Wire offered to help you through your first time, if you're willing to share such a circumstance with him. You've surprised yourself to know that you were more than just willing.

His sweet words and gentle motions coaxed desire from you the longer your lips found his. Desire and need begun to grow in intensity, your breaths coming out in gentle pants of breath while he smiled against your lips.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckled, breaking the kiss against your lips and feeling your caress immediately draw down to press against his neck. “Ah, shit.” He whined as his head lulled to the side and permitted you to kiss, mouth and bite at the side of his skin. “You need to slow down.”

“I don't want to slow down,” you whisper against his neck, “I want to go all the way, commander-.”

“-Wire.” He corrected you, moving his larger hand up to circle the scruff of your neck and lifted you back. Your eyes met his, finding only kindness and desire in his expression. “If I'm going to be joining myself with you, for the first time at least, I'd like you to use my name.”

“Wire,” you tested his name against your palate, feeling the way it rolled off your tongue and grew the thickness in the air between you. He spoke your name in turn, leaning down and pressing his forehead against yours.

“Doing a good job,” he praised you, “Now, think about what you want.”

“I don't understand, Wire,” you furrow your brows in puzzlement. “I've told you what I want. I want everything.”

His hand gently cups your chin, thumbing over your lip in a gentle circle while smiling at you.

“Not what I meant,” he shook his head, his nose scrunching playfully up at you. “There's a variety of ways this can go for us, and I'm going to ask you what you want before I just do it.” You dart your eyes between his, briefly down to his lips, and back up again to his eyes.

“I don't understand.” Your shrug caused him to scoff and click his tongue at you.

“You really haven't done anything like this before, have you?” he asked, causing you to shy away from his touch and look down to where your lap met his. He chased your gaze, drawing up your chin in his grasp to meet his eyes. “It's not a bad thing, sweetheart. Just means I'm going to have to be explicit with you. I can do that, just stop me if it gets too much. Just stop me if there's something that interests you.”

“Gets too much?” you furrow your brows, “Interests me-?”

His hands fall to rest on your thighs as he leans his larger frame down to whisper against the shell of your ear.

“I can touch you, you can touch me,” he punctuated each statement with a smooth kiss to your neck and ear. “And by touch, I mean: I mean my cock and your cunt.” A warm flush spread up to your cheeks and caused your breath to hitch. “We can use hands, fingers, mouths, toys, tongues: anything you want to coax out your pleasure with me, I am offering it for you.”

You felt arousal begin to pool in your undergarments, weeping from your slit and causing your abdomen to clench at his words. He continued to press kisses against your skin, moving his hands towards your waistband and hold you flush against his hardening cock.

“Or, you can grind in my lap like this,” he motioned you backwards and forwards, slowly rocking you atop his lap in motions that hit your clit and caused your breath to hitch. “You can also do this on my face, and I can please you that way.”

“Wire,” you gasped out, moving to place your hands on his shoulders to steady your movements.

“Is that where you're wanting to go?” Wire asked you, his breath tingling against your neck and erupting it in goose-flesh. “You can take those pants off right now and get off on my face if you want.”

“N-No,” you stutter, pushing him away to lay him flat on the bed beneath you. He chuckled, holding his hands up defensively. You crawl up his larger body, arching your back and pressing your chest into his. “No, I don't want that. Not this time.”

“Oh?” he smiled lazily up at you. “Want me to keep listing the things I am prepared to do with you?”

“No,” you uttered firmly. “I don't want you to keep listing.”

“But I didn't even get to talk about the kinky shit, honey,” he teased you, moving his hands up to gently caress your skull and grip the base of your head. “I've got a strap you can peg me with, if you'd prefer it-.”

“-Wire,” you warned him, causing him to chuckle further up at you.

“Yes, dear?” he teased you, moving his hands down to weave around your waist. “Did nothing catch your interest so far?”

You huff in mock agitation, slowly leaning down and pressing your lips against his. He hums enthusiastically, reciprocating your kiss with similar motions. His smile never left his face, his hands slowly dipping and caressing your body with his broad hands. Pulling away from his lips, you couldn't fight the smile growing on your lips as he continued to stare up at you.

“I just want…” you stop yourself, feeling his eyes never leaving your own. He didn't mean to make you feel embarrassed or uncomfortable, but it was a feeling you felt nevertheless. “...I just want it to happen naturally. I don't want to talk, I just want- ah!”

Wire cut you off by flipping you beneath him and caging you within his broader arms. His eyes darkened, staring at you in a manner that felt scolding.

“Communication is everything to me,” he growled, reaching down and immediately ripping your pants down your legs, leaving you bare and exposed. You shrieked back, moving to cover your center with your legs, only to feel them being pried apart by Wire's hands. His fingers sought out your core, gently carding through your folds and testing your arousal.

“For example,” he continued, his eyes focussed on your expression as your breath hitched. “I need to make sure you're actually wanting this. I need to know how wet you are for me.” His fingers dipped up to you with your clit, his legs holding your legs apart by pinning them down. “I need to know how you touch yourself, so I can bring you over that edge myself.”

“Wire-!” you cry out, already feeling your slick seep out and weep onto his hands. He chuckled, continuing to hold you hostage to your desires while championing you towards the edge.

“I need to know how you want me to fuck you,” he purred in your ear, leaning forward and watching as you scrunched your eyes shut and parted your lips in bliss. Drawing closer towards your euphoria by his hands, he leant down and dusted your ear with his whisper, “I need to know how much you want me to.”

“Oh, fuck, Wire!” By simply his fingers teasing your clit and playing with your entrance alone, you felt your world crash around you. White split your vision while Wire ripped an unexpected high from your body. 

“There you go,” he watches on hungrily as you coat his fingers in your slick while softly rocking with every twitch. “Good job, cumming for me.” His greed had him wanting to overstimulate you and tear another three out of you, but he withheld his urge and slowly removed his hand from your pussy. 

Your chest heaved, feeling overwhelmed at pleasure being coaxed out by the hands of another. Wire slowly drew his hands either side of your hips and rubbed his hands on the bones. 

“That… was mean,” you panted out, moving up to support yourself on your elbows. 

“‘That’ was showing you the importance of healthy communication with bedroom partners,” he rolled his eyes at you before redressing his face with his smile. “And it was also me showing you how dedicated I am to this.” His lips gently eased down to press against your forehead, “How dedicated I am to you.”

“Thank you, Wire,” you offer him with a soft pout. He smiles down at you, his expression charming you with its honesty. 

“Do you want to continue?” He asked you. His eyes were hopeful and soft, something you truly did not expect to be on the receiving end of from the taller man. 

The embarrassment and fluster only grows when you feel your body hastily recover from your former high and begin to grow once more. Your need is apparent in the way you brush your legs together and attempt to find friction. Wire notices your need once again growing between your legs and chuckles down at you. 

“Words.” He nodded down at you. “You have them. Use them.” Lying back on the mattress beneath him, you gaze into his eyes through half-hooded lashes. 

“Please.” 

“There you go,” he praised you, gently caressing your cheek with one hand while expertly using the other to tug down his sleep pants. “Good job finding your words.” 

He drew away from you to open his bedside drawer, pulling out a metallic packet and tearing at the serrated corner. You watched with interest at him rolling the elastic sheathe over his cock, now revealed over his waistband. 

Wire, the man over nine feet tall, was extremely large. His cock was thick, heavy, and already weeping from the tip now shrouded beneath the gummy material. Your first time was about to be taken by the hands of a giant, and you were beginning to doubt your ability. 

Sensing your unease, Wire peered down at you while the tightened lip of the condom fully met his base. He had faith you could take him, but viewing how your anxiety began to claw up to your face, he felt the need to soothe you. 

“Would you prefer we don't? Or I could use a toy?” he queried, leaning down by concaving his chest in a deep arch to meet your forehead with his. “I know I'm larger than you, but I have faith you can take me. If you're unsure, I'll stop right here.”

You darted your eyes between his, giving a quiet shake of your head while hooking your knees over his hips. The tip of his cock pressed against your slit and caused you to automatically seek it out to coax into yourself. 

“I don't want to stop,” you utter firmly, reaching up and carding your fingers through his salt and peppered curls. “And I don't want a toy.” You tugged him into your embrace, forcing his tip to begin it's intrusion into your core with your breath hitching. “I want you. Just me and you.”

“Fuck,” Wire gasped, feeling the way your walls began to stretch around him to invite him in. Although dulled by the thin sheathe holding his cock within, he could feel how wet you were to accommodate the stretch. 

Once his tip goes in, it stings at the ring of muscle straining to take him within you. You suck a hiss through your teeth, causing him to still and hold your motions back. He notices the telltale signs of pain on your features, printing him to reach down between your bodies and gently rock the pearled bud at the top of your pussy. 

“You're so wet, and you feel so good,” he praised you, feeling your pain falling from you and pleasure homing in on its place. “You're doing wonderfully, sweetheart. We can just rock like this if you like?” 

“No. Keep going,” you whined at him, feeling the most full you had ever felt. You had tried to enter yourself with your fingers in private, but nothing felt quite as comforting as this man coaching you through the stretch and filling you with his cock. As his fingers continued to tease at your clit, you felt yourself open up more to him with your pussy eagerly sucking him in. 

“Oh, fuck,” Wire shuddered out, almost losing himself at your enthusiasm. He was trying to maintain control of his motions, but you were simply too much for his body to truly handle. 

The truth of it all was that Wire had a crush. Heat was the first one to point it out to him, to which he denied and denied until he could deny it no longer. His heart swooned for you at each kindness you brought onto him. You were sweet to him, a sweetness he hadn't known in quite some time. 

Your sweetness was always honest and true: not found in company he paid for, or pleasure being thrown at him by locals from port to port desperate to fuck a pirate. Knowing he was your first, having the task of drawing out any waves of bliss he could to your persons? He felt more infatuated than ever with you. 

Just those sweet kisses alone had him hard beneath his sleep pants, a likely confession he would surely make once he had you screaming out in ecstasy and receiving the appropriate amount of aftercare from him. He adored you, and wanted you to be his. 

Finally sheathing most of his length inside your walls, he felt the barrier of your cervix giving him some pushback and alerting him you were stretched to your limit. He peered down at you, noticing your flushed skin and parted lips huffing and panting as you felt fully stretched for the first time. 

“W-Wire,” you shuddered out, sniffling while overwhelmed by the full feeling in your belly. He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours, withdrawing his cock only to slowly rock it back into you. 

“There you go,” he praised you against your lips, pulling away only to praise you further. “Look at you. Taking me like I was always made for you.” 

The feeling of being stretched so fully was foreign, and you truly didn't think you could cum from this alone. As soon as you thought it, his hand still between your legs rocked your clit in time with the slow rock of his hips. You let out a needy mewl, your back bowing as more of your slick fled from your pussy to dampen Wire’s bed sheets beneath you. 

“Good job, bright eyes,” he continued to rock into you. “Just like that. Relax into me, and I'll get you where you need to be.” He increased the pressure and frequency against your clit, his hips rocking in more heavy intensity. Each time his mushroomed tip hit your cervix, your vision buzzed and throat choked at how stuffed he was making you feel. 

“Too much, too little?” he panted out, forcing your eyes back up to meet his face as he peered down at you. 

“Is-... Ah-...” Your voice caught in your throat as you felt yourself draw nearer to the edge once more, still over sensitive from the orgasm prior. “Is this even good for you-?”

“-Don't you fucking dare doubt it isn't,” he barked down at you, removing his hand from your clit and hooking his hands beneath your shoulders to cage you in closer. “I-I’m trying to make you feel good, but if you want me to just fuck you like an animal, I can do that too.”

The new angle managed by his cock entering you from this close proximity had you immediately more comfortable. There was something pure about being held so closely. Having a man between your legs losing himself within your body like this felt more pleasurable than if he continued to hold himself away from you. 

“So good, Wire, ” you whined up at him, lacing your ankles behind his back. His crotch hit your clit with every in-thrust, feeling his cock begin to twitch within you. The tightening in your stomach indicated how close you were, as did the crude squelching from Wire's cock diving into your pussy with every in-thrust. “Right there, right there!”

“Ah, sh-shit,” Wire barked out, feeling spurts of his cum already beginning to swell the condom as he almost toppled over his edge. He continued the pace, turning his head and claiming your lips beneath his own in a rough and needy kiss. 

Your walls begin to spasm around him, crying out for the second time, just as he meets his edge. The intensity of your ecstasy caused your teeth to latch onto his bottom lip, causing him to immediately flood the sheath with a heavier release. the joint euphoria caused the room to thicken as your heads both swirled with the bliss. 

Steadily rocking to a close, he pulled out his cock while maintaining contact with your lips against his. Hands found one another's heads, a mixture of hair, sweat and heat rising between you both the longer you held his lips on yours. 

Wire had fucked before. Many times before. More times than he could truly count before you. But the feeling of your lips meeting his, the little whimpers as you felt your neediness dissipate into a soft afterglow was foreign to him. 

While this was your first time laying with another person in its entirety, this was truly Wire's first time in making love to another person. He knew in that moment that he couldn't go back to friendship, and truly hoped you felt the same. 

Pulling away from his kiss, you looked up into his face and met a foreign expression from the taller man. Still slightly knocked for a loop at the intensity of your orgasm, you caressed his cheek with your hand and thumbed over the styled whiskers sprouting against his cheek. 

“You okay, Wire?” you asked him innocently, feeling a dull ache begin to set in within your abdomen and sting at your entrance. He darts his eyes between yours before retracting himself from your arms and rising to stand. 

Without much warning, he hooked his arm beneath your knees and at your back, cradling you into his chest and coaxing you off his bed. No words were uttered from his lips as he drew you to his private ensuite and began readying a bath for you. 

“Wire, what are you doing?” you asked him softly. He continued to hold you against himself while he tested the water with his forearm to check its temperature. Filling the bath to the brim, he gazed softly down at you and sat you atop his knee while aiding you out of your shirt. 

“Wire, talk to me-.”

“-I’m pouring you a bath so the ache doesn't hurt so bad tomorrow. It has Epson salts in to aid in repairing the muscle pains,” he nodded softly, maintaining eye contact with you while aiding you within the bath as you stood on shaky legs. “This is as important as working you up to take me. Need to ensure you're taken care of afterwards.”

You sighed out as the water overwhelmed your senses as much as Wire's sweetness was causing you whiplash. 

“Careful, Wire,” you warned him with a soft laugh, eyes closing as you felt his hands dip into the water and work your shoulders out of their tension. “You're going to make me want to do this again and again, never leaving this room if not to do my duties or eat.”

“While that was not my initial intention,” he purred against your ear behind you, “I would be lying if I didn't say I didn't want that now. Would that be such a bad thing?"

“What?” you gasp, turning back to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I wouldn't mind doing this again with you permanently. Exclusively,” he admitted softly, his expression almost sheepish, “If that's something you want with me.” 

You sigh, shaking your head with a smile before peering up at his downturned eyes. With the power balance between you now shifted, you slowly reach for his cheek and guide him down towards you. 

“I would love that, Wire.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @ane5e

🎶 Happy Birthday to Me 🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[hoseoksluna]

THE FUN DAY, pt. II. | kth

pairing: idol!military!boyfriend!taehyung x f. reader (ft. best friend!jimin)

genre: fluff, a little angst

word count: 5.0k

summary: you didn't prepare a fun day this time, but it became more than that.

pin: tba. / playlist: fun / taglist: join / discord: join

note: this was the first fic, during which i absolutely sobbed my heart out. i never had this happen to me and i'm sure you'll feel it as you read. please, show me your love. enjoy. <3

An abandoned woman can weep,  but an abandoned boy can weep not. Uncried affliction pains the most, even love, when seven mountains repose between it, the seven mountains of hard rocks. 

I have two small windows, I have two big eyes, but writings I have none that would drift, at dusk, upon my table, reminiscent of an ivory cloud, and that would say:  people love each other, man! 

𓂃 ౨ৎ . — The Evening by Jiří Wolker

Paris was chilled to the marrow, yet embraced by winter. Dotted with mute stars and coruscating lights, life and poetry that were missing syllables—as if it were trying to speak, trying to converse, but something was prying its fingers inside their mouth, not allowing them to let out a sound. 

That’s precisely how you felt within the depth of your afternoon nap. 

The Eiffel Tower tried with all its monumental might to say something. The cafés with their myriads of intellectual words, glasses of wine and desserts strained their throats much to their dismay. You gazed upon it all—and you felt it deeply, their forced inability that wasn’t theirs at all. You wore nothing but a flimsy, tattered white T-shirt that has seen its better days, an item of cotton that belonged to Taehyung, and your feet were bare on the cobblestones, scratched and raw, though not cold. In spite of it, you feared for your baby. Feared the cold, that you did not sense, would touch it and bring something unfortunate to its developing body. And you drifted like this through your dream, carrying fear and pity. For the whole vastness of Paris, forbidden to speak; and for the smallest of Paris inside your belly, unable to speak yet. 

You drifted and stood, gazing and gazing. Wanted to leave. Wanted to go back to your apartment, but you couldn’t. Your guilt kept you in your place while your fear strangled you until you were blue. 

No people in sight and you were dying. Blue and pregnant, blue and abandoned. Blue and maddened—within the realm of dreams, that is. 

And then just as you internally reach for Jimin, as you have many times since October, a hand is brushing through your hair, stirring you awake, stealing you away from the tragedy of it all. And the sensation of iciness prickling the tips of your toes is what you feel first, the heft of the large palm on the crown on your head second. 

A tearful whimper gushes out of your throat, the awareness that you’re no longer rooted in your dream making your body squirm under the fleece blanket. The fear punctures through the flesh of your heart one more time before it escapes through the crooked center of your shoulder blades. 

And there’s a figure sitting by the edge of your bed, nestled in the arc of your folded legs and rounded form.

And it’s no longer afternoon.

You blink in the dark, try to make out what is happening and before your sleepy brain comprehends who that large figure is, your heart knows. 

Your heart smells the autumn spices of his being. Apples, pumpkin and cinnamon, despite being clouded by the wintry air. It hasn’t seen him in three months, but it knows him. 

It knows him intimately. 

“Taehyung?” your heart whispers, the sound coming out of your throat loosely, yet with a piercing pain that is greater than the fear you felt. 

The autumn boy sighs, enveloping you in the homely snugness that you missed, that you lacked all this time. You reach for his hand, blindly, finding it somewhere on his lap, and upon that first contact, he speaks. 

“Hi, baby,” he croaks out, the words new and untouched by this strange reality—as if he saved them for this very moment, keeping them deep in his clavicles all those months. “I’m home.” 

The noise that leaves you could be mistaken for a saddened sob, but it’s one of such absolute joy. The autumn boy coos, leaning over to turn on the bedside lamp. The yellow light shows him to you and you discover that the autumn boy isn’t a boy at all. 

Taehyung is a man. 

Short, black hair decorates his forehead in a sweet, seemingly youthful way that is painstakingly oxymoronic. His bulbous cheeks are pallid, carrying the weight of the winter in them—new, new winter that you barely even recall basking in with him. They hold up his boxy smile, though, something that you never shall forget. And lingering your eyes there, the sight is surreal. 

So surreal that you lift a hand and caress that meaningful cheek, coloring it in a rose tint that grows warm in your palm. 

A man of all rose gardens and sculptures that are alive. 

And when he tilts his face into your touch, your heart swells to such an extent that you spring up into a sitting position and melt into him within a clasp. A warm, a real clasp. 

He’s real. 

He’s here. 

His hair is silkily soft, the tresses of an angel that takes care of flowers such as these. The skin upon the nape of his neck is feverish, as is the torso of his body that you half press up against. He didn’t feel this warm when you were wandering unknowingly in your imagination. And when you pull back to make sure that what you’re seeing isn’t that figment of that damned imagination of yours, he ascertains to you that he is real by letting his boxy smile quiver. 

It quivers; it is not frozen in place. Beautiful still, but not frozen. Quivering with the heft of all the emotions due to your reunion. 

And when you slide your palm down his chest, his two perfect lungs lift to kiss it, just to fall and kiss it again. Over and over again. 

Large chest. Large shoulders. Large biceps. 

And large eyes that melt into chocolate pools as he deepens your shared gaze, studying the way you’re comprehending his presence. He gives you all the time in the world, as if understanding that his absence was too long and, tenderly, you break. 

Tears rush to your irises while you acknowledge your soul with the principle of it all by tracing his body with your fingers. The veins of his hand, thumping under your touch, that are the roots of the trees that watch over the roses in his garden. So full of life and present time. The forearms that aren’t hidden by the tweed of his usual suits, but clothed in the plush of an off-white zipper jacket that your heart mourns. A clash of what you’re used to and the reality. 

He must have gotten off the plane at this hour. His duffel bag must be somewhere in the living room, abandoned now in place of you. 

You’re no longer abandoned. He’s here. 

You’re no longer delirious. He’s here. 

He was supposed to come in the morning. That’s what he said in your last phone call, where he let you in on what Jimin had done for the both of you. Your response to his promise in October manifested in the following months, but Jimin fought against it. Knelt before the feet of the man he’s afraid of and begged. Begged the Sergeant to make that call and allow Taehyung to have his vacation. Begged until his knees bruised and his hands left a wet print on the dirty floor. 

And the Sergeant softened, impressed by his strong will and the respect he showed him. Nodded his head and made it so Taehyung leaves by the end of the year. Did so well in North Korea, protected his military brothers before himself, the Sergeant interceded with those facts and off Taehyung went. 

Off to catch a plane in December. 

I’ll be home on New Year’s Eve, Taehyung said over the phone to you, and somehow he must’ve seen the pout that was forming on your mouth because he added a reassuring I know right after. 

You didn’t understand why he couldn’t have come a day earlier, but now you see that you didn’t have to understand it. 

Because Taehyung made it. 

He came home on his birthday. 

You press your face against the side of his, your arms back around his neck. “My love,” you whisper and gently squirm, for you feel a movement in your belly. You open your eyes, brushing your lashes across his rose petal cheek, smiling a smile that quivers just like his. That is first movement of your baby that you ever felt. The tears pour out, watering the soft skin. You kiss the pathway it created, only to stray away and go up, nudging your nose against his. Let out breaths of your overwhelmingness against him like this. Feel that your baby spoke to you, spoke in the only way it can, telling you to tell him. And you do. Finally, you do—after nearly six months. “I have a gift for you.” 

Humming, his long fingers find the back of your head, his arm caging you in as he buries his digits into the waterfall of your tousled hair, grown thicker now due to your pregnancy. 

You didn’t make any plans for tomorrow, fearful it would turn misfortunate like it did in October. And because his return is so sudden, so unexpected, telling him now feels more than right. Feels divine, feels memorable, the destiny propelled by your baby. 

Within the snug atmosphere of your embrace, you travel with your hand on a journey across his back far longer than it used to be, down his strong arm until you wind up at his fingers. You take them and place them on your swollen belly, bigger now than it used to be as well. 

Both of you changed in different ways. 

“Happy birthday,” you breathe out, the words accompanied by your strangled sobs, and just like the cafés, the Eiffel Tower and the life and the poetry of Paris in your drowsy, afternoon dream, Taehyung doesn’t say anything. 

Not for a while. 

His lungs pause. The moisture of his lips crumbles into dryness like a withering blossom. His eyelids remain unmoving, irises fixed on a spot you cannot see because you cannot stop gazing at his evident shock. 

One he begins to wake up from when the baby kicks against his hand. 

He blinks, a heavy breath gusts out of his lips, upon which he runs his tongue. He turns his head to face you, no longer smiling, but trembling. A film of wetness clouds his sparkling eyes and you think the wholeness of the magnificence of the Eiffel Tower is in them, perhaps even greater than it. And against the place the baby kicked, it rests with their small body, drawn to their Daddy’s warmth. And it is only then that your tears and his, at last and in tandem, fall out. And along with it—every stress you ever felt regarding not being able to conceive. 

“We did it?” he asks, carefully, his voice raspy, quiet and deep, wanting to hear it from you first before he looks down, and you can merely nod. He whimpers, sniffling, glancing into your eyes with such depth that it moves through you, sealing something within you. Perhaps joy, perhaps satisfaction with life, perhaps the boundless love that you feel for him, and you want to stay in this moment for far longer than time allows you. But it is foolish, this want of yours. Because when Taehyung finally looks down at your belly, it is a moment that is slowly and surely carving itself into your skin, your flesh and your bloodline. For your baby to see in the future. He fondles the rounded valley of their little body and comes to terms with it, vividly. His sobs stream out, pained but ebullient, and there his mouth cracks that boxy smile. Real, colorful, shining. “We did it.” 

You nod again, the warmth of his hand boiling, homely, so right. “We did it, Taehyung.” 

His eyes flick to yours and as they close, he closes his fingers around the back of your neck as well and kisses you. Boiling, homely, right and real. 

Not a figment of your imagination. Not your delirium, caused by your abandonment, by the other end of your love that missed him. 

This is reality. This is the present moment. 

Taehyung deepens the kiss and in it you feel the gladness of his being, the words ‘finally’ that begin to unfold down your throat, hasty to meet your baby in your belly. 

And Taehyung is hasty, too. 

Breaking the kiss, he leans down and presses his lips against that rounded valley. Peppers a hundred, a thousand, a million kisses against that part of the baby’s body. Lingers there, cheek against it, head on your thigh, and breathes. 

You let him bask in it for as long as he needs, raking your fingers through his short hair. And your teardrops fall onto his colored cheek when he begins to talk to his baby. 

“Daddy’s here, little one,” he says, his tone mellifluous, his lips brushing against their body with each pronounced word—just like Jimin’s thumb brushed against your small belly at the time when he held your hand outside of the jazz club. “Daddy loves you so much. He can’t wait to meet you, but he has to finish his military service first and then he’ll be home for good. With you and Mommy. I’ll take care of you both. I’ll never leave again.” 

You swipe away your tears from his cheek and Taehyung straightens. Kisses your lips. Kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck and hugs you as if he never hugged you before, three hearts connected in that embrace when he pulls you onto his lap and holds you. 

He inhales your scent, your hair, the sleep you emerged out of, tracing patterns on your back. And then the sweetest form of interrogation happens. 

He brushes your hair back with both hands, keeping it in place behind your ears. “How far along are you?” 

You can’t halt the bloom of the grin on your face, the question reminding you of Jimin. “Five months. Six next week.” 

He reciprocates the smile, but as he begins to do the math, it withers. “So your due date is in May?” 

The corners of your mouth downturn. You haven’t allowed yourself to fully think about the time in the near future in terms of you giving birth, knowing the pain it would bring. You’re aware you should prepare yourself for it, so the worst doesn’t happen, but you also don’t want to prematurely cause harm to your baby with that stress. 

Your emotions are in shambles. They are a threat and you wish they weren’t. 

“May 30th is my due date, but it doesn’t mean I give birth on that day. I can give birth in June, too. It depends on the baby.” You laugh, softly and shortly. “Can you take a leave?” 

You can see him racking his brain, his features solemn and tense. “I get discharged on June 10th and I don’t know if the commander will allow me…” he trails off, briefly looking away before finding his way back to your eyes. “Don’t worry about that. It’s my responsibility. I’ll be here. You won’t be alone during your first childbirth, I promise you that. I’ll be here. Do you trust me?” 

Without a shadow of doubt, you do, and so you don’t hesitate to nod your head and express it through your own words. “I do, Taehyung. I trust you.” 

He smiles, the blush in his cheeks deepening its hue. “Good.” 

He kisses you, gently, and it’s a kiss of such romantic affection that you forget about the threat of the stress, the threat of him not being here during your childbirth. You melt into him, basking in the demonstration of his love for you, of the pride he feels because of the way you trust in him. You can enormously feel it all, as if it was written on his lips and you could read it. 

He’s daubed in this resplendent romance as he withdraws. Coated in sweat, he’s so refulgent that you dissolve, falling in love with him all over again. Your inner child swoons and you sense her emotions, as though you were her in the autumn of your childhood, being caught by him during a chase, surrounded by pumpkins and apples. The emotions she felt when she looked at him more differently than she ever did in her lifetime and realized that she wants to marry him and have a baby with him. 

That undreamed dream came true. And somehow that is healing her. Somehow, that allows her to rest peacefully, having drawn her last breath. 

Taehyung kisses your chin. And kisses her goodbye at the same time. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” 

You shake your head. “The doctor asks you at the five month check-up if you want to know the gender, but because you weren’t with me, I didn’t want to. My next check-up is next week, though. We can find out together.” 

You expect him to smile at that, but Taehyung frowns, placing a kiss on your forehead. “I’m sorry you had to go to these check-ups all alone. I’ll go with you this time, baby.” 

The anguish you had buried in yourself deep resurfaces. Maybe that is one of the reasons why you were so delirious in October. You had to go through the final stage to adulthood all by yourself, abandoned. 

Something tells you to tell him, but shame holds you back, twisting your tongue. You furrow your brows, breaking free of the amorous eye contact you had with Taehyung, and he immediately catches onto the shadowed side of your emotions. 

He grasps it into his hand, like he so very often grips your hair. “What’s wrong?” 

You bite your lip, still looking away. “Did Jimin tell you anything about the day you were supposed to have your vacation?” 

There’s an interlude between his response and you glance at him to see him drifting through the library of his memories. With furrowed brows, just like your own. 

“I only spoke to Jimin once and he asked me if my commander allowed me to have his vacation. That’s how I found out he was willing to give it up for me, but I didn’t know why,” he says, lifting his head from the myriads of life-records, uncertainty and confusion covering his eyes. “But I didn’t get his vacation. My commander gave me a reward vacation because of what I did in the north. Why did Jimin want to give up his vacation for me?” 

The shame inches closer, scratching your back, but for your baby, you shake it away. Decide to tell him because you trust him and because you can tell him anything without the fear of prejudice. 

“Because I went mad on that day,” you start, straight and flat. Taehyung widens his eyes, but then his brows lower down, as if they were saying, excuse me? Anger eclipses his face, one that feels safe, though. “I imagined you being here with me. I planned this fun day with you and Jimin, taking you on a walk through the park on the way to the jazz club, where you kissed me for the first time. I wanted to tell you about the baby. Jimin was supposed to honor you for your mission in the north by singing, but I ruined everything. Nobody saw you when I saw you very clearly… until I didn’t.”

Pensiveness smooths out over his anger that boils, quietly. And once again, like Paris in your dream, he doesn’t say anything at all. He contemplates the information you’ve given him and the patterns he’d been engraving into your back reach their end, no longer circling on their own without his assistance. 

“Why didn’t he tell me any of this?” he asks, keeping his voice low, so his anger doesn’t touch you. “I should've known…” 

There was no contact between you and him for the two months he was on his mission, and phone calls were forbidden. It seems as though he’s dwelling on this fact as he doesn’t finish his sentence, rooting his eyesight on your lips, absentmindedly. 

Jimin said one month, but he was wrong. 

North is brutal. Too, too brutal. 

Thank God Taehyung came out unscathed. 

Another interlude of foreign, but not entirely uncanny silence settles in between and, blinking rapidly, Taehyung sighs. Brushes your hair back one last time before he takes your hands in his. A gesture of absolute genuineness, a foreshadowing to his following words. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice throaty. “I’m sorry for not being here. I’m sorry for being so far away. And I’m sorry our dream came true when I have to be away.” 

His pity cuts through you, reminiscent of your dream, and you realize that the pity you felt in that other world wasn’t yours. It was his, and the element of the inability to speak was the principle of him not being here and not being able to react. It’s all connected—your dream told you about his return and about his feelings. And you felt them because you’re a part of him, carrying his child. 

You soften, seized by it all, and you hide your face in his neck, fading into him. “It’s okay. You’re here now. Maybe it was supposed to happen now. We both changed, didn’t we? We grew up.” 

He forces you to look at him and the pity on his face breaks you. The rose petals in his cheeks died, the smooth surface now swirls with pallidness once again. His brown pools are glossy with the depth of that emotion, millions of words swimming in them. He can’t say them, he can’t catch up to them, and when he closes his eyes, presses his forehead against yours and sighs, you’re aware of how hard this is for him. 

You had five months to come to terms with this star-crossed situation. He’s barely had an hour. 

“I want to be here for you. I want to help you. I don’t want to leave you alone with the baby,” he murmurs against you, squeezing your hands to make you understand how much this means to him, and you allow the wall, which you had built up along with Jimin to keep your mind and your emotions safe, to collapse, completely. Fresh tears drip down your cheeks, your chin trembling. “Have you had any morning sickness?” 

You nod, recollecting your first nausea in the first trimester when Jimin was still around. “Yes, it started when Jimin was here. He was there for me. Until he had to go back to Korea.” 

A war flashes on his face and, right away, he lets you know which side has won. “I want to be here for you, not Jimin. Do you understand me?” 

You open your mouth in shock because you still, faithfully, remember the words he spoke to you in your imagination. Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone. And with shock comes the realization that the chapter ends. It is the final puzzle piece, the last enlightenment you needed—because in reality, Taehyung didn’t say those words. Taehyung didn’t give his blessing for Jimin to take care of you in his absence. Your own ego did. 

Taehyung mistakens your silence and your comprehension of that for displeasure, and he clicks his tongue in regret, sighing your name. 

“I’m glad Jimin was there for you, don’t get me wrong, but I just wish it was me. Who knows if I ever get a chance to be your partner in this again,” he spills out, truthfully, and watches as another rivulet of tears trickles down your face. He wipes them away, blinking his own away, too. “I want to rub your back, baby. I want to watch your belly grow big. I want to tie your shoes, bring you food and buy baby clothes with you. I don’t want Jimin to do that because it’s my job. It’s my duty.” 

You understood him then and you understand him now. Agree with him as that truth anchors in your heart. Jimin was kind to do what he did and you’re grateful for it. Without him, you’d be roaming in your delusions. And Taehyung needs to know that he helped you with that first and foremost. 

“Jimin wasn’t my partner in that, Taehyung,” you croak out, inhaling deeply so your sentences flow out better. “I agree with you that it’s your job and I also want it to be you. But what Jimin did was save me from my own mind. I was lost without you, pregnant and alone, and he kept those delusions far away from me. I needed that. I needed a friend.” 

Taehyung nods, understanding, caressing your tear-stained face. The color percolates back to his cheeks, little by little. And you can see a weight being lifted off his shoulders. 

Calmness expands in your sternum. 

“I will give him my thanks for that,” he settles, kissing your temple, leaving his lips there, against that intimate place. “You won’t be left alone with your mind again. I’ll try my hardest to be there for you, to keep in touch. I’ll talk to my commander. I’ll do anything. But I promise you won’t have those delusions again because you’ll be busy with me.” 

The last tears that surge out are of relief and you hug him, squeeze him in gratitude. “Thank you, Taehyung. I love you.” 

He sinks his fingers into the patterns he engraved into your back, rocking you side to side in that embrace, his lips by your ear. “I love you, baby. I’ll buy you a big house. We’ll go on a shopping spree next week and get all the things the little one needs. I’ll take care of you both.” 

You kiss him and in the middle of that expression of affection, the baby kicks again. Taehyung feels it against his own tummy and he grins and laughs into the kiss, lifting you up with utmost ease and setting your feet down on the carpet near the record player by the wall. 

And the music he begins to play isn’t of the jazz kind he loves so much. He put down a vinyl that bears Billie Eilish’s face and when Halley’s Comet sounds out throughout the bedroom, he takes your hand and drifts on the carpet with you. 

Not under the brown, dimmed lights of the jazz club, but under the yellow lights of the bedroom where you reached the beginning journey of your adulthood. And now as you dance with him, pregnant with his baby, you feel as much as an adult as a human can possibly feel like one. 

The final stage. 

Everything changes with this song. 

Halley’s Comet comes around more than I do…

Taehyung doesn’t come often, but he’s here now. Big and buff, cinnamon, apples and pumpkin. The boy you loved turned into a man that you love even more. 

From a baby boy friend to a baby Daddy. 

And as he looks down into your eyes, he asks you what names you want to give to the baby. And you whisper it to him, letting yourself be led into a dance of adulthood. 

“Perfect,” he whispers back, kissing you and staying there for as long as he needs, for as long as you need because you grip his shoulder with all your might, afraid to let him go. 

Because after he piles up your apartment with the crib, the stroller, the high chair, the diapers and so many non-colorful baby clothes that you need another set of furniture, he has to leave again. And you cry so hard that you can’t get any words out. But Taehyung hears them. He hears them in the hundreds of kisses you exchange and he hears them in the last hug you give him and in the last goodbye you say to him. 

And he comes back on May 29th, bigger and more buff than he was, prepared to be a Daddy. Spends the day moving into the new house he bought you with Jimin as his help and no one else. Paints the baby’s room pink because you’re having a baby girl that he grew his muscles for to protect her. 

His commander gave him a special leave and forbade him from coming back and finishing his service. Apparently, the man himself has five children and four grandchildren. Is a softie when it comes to them. 

And when Taehyung is done with the house and sits with you on your new couch, he announces it to the baby girl. Your home is ready, little one. You can come out now. And he laughs so hard that the delightful sound pulses through the walls, taking a sip of his soda. 

And she does come out the next day, sharing the same number of her birth date with her Daddy. Taehyung holds your hand, as calm as the spring wind, as you push her out. Breathes with you, guides you, controls your inhales and exhales. Keeps his lips pressed against your temple—and he purses his lips against the same spot on the baby girl’s head once he holds her. 

And Taehyung looks at you, and you look at him. Joyful tears fall, in tandem, with his. 

And the happy event repeats two years later. What Taehyung feared the most didn’t come true. He watched your belly grow with his second child while holding the hand of the first. He rubbed your back while you threw up the breakfast he had learned to make for you. He tied your shoes when you couldn’t bend down due to your large bump, his daughter standing beside him, watching his every move, learning about love from him. And he bought colorful clothes for the baby with its gender already in mind. 

Blue, brown, green and beige. 

A baby boy for the baby girl. A reversed picture of you and him, growing together. 

And as your babies grow together, you grow old with Taehyung, too. 

And he never leaves. Never again. 

And he buys you tulips of all colors every single week, whose sweet scent the children inhale and whose pink hues color their cheeks. And they play with Uncle Jimin until he brings them cousins to utterly fall in love with.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

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