#one must not throw stones at glass houses

[fast-burn]

there is no ethical consumption of millionaire male athletes, none of them are morally pure, and most of them are not even good people 😔😔

[brick-van-dyke]

Thinking about how "self defence" is considered okay until a country the west is not allied with does it.

[katsu28]

summer's golden haze - chapter two

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: backyard barbecues, the local market, and an unexpected discovery that has you wondering what exactly you may have just gotten yourself into. (5k)

warnings: angst (this early on, i know i'm sorry but it's for the plot i promise <3), lando and max f bickering like an old married couple

a/n: she's here!!!! sorry it took a little longer than expected but i hope you all enjoy this chapter :) pls feel free to come chat in my asks if you want to, i'd love to hear what everyone think about it so far!

previous chapter | masterlist

“Are these guys rich or something?”

Camille voices exactly the thought running through your mind as you roll to a stop to the address Lando had texted you yesterday, gawking out at the sprawling acreage in front of you. 

You peer at the impressive villa through the windshield, taking in everything with baited breath. She’s absolutely right. 

This house has to be two, if not three times the size of the one you’re all staying at, and that’s just what you can see so far. Vines bursting with colorful flowers crawl up white stone walls, curling around trellises of even more foliage, shutters on huge windows. There’s even a massive fountain in the middle of the courtyard, pristine marble, spewing crystal clear water in streams. 

It’s a classic old money countryside villa—worth millions, you assume, not even taking in the gathering of vintage and expensive sports cars parked along the cobblestone driveway. You suddenly feel so, so small compared to the extravagance of just the exterior of the place. 

Who are these people? 

A guy with brown curls similar to Lando’s pulls open the door when you ring the bell, in the middle of yelling something at someone further inside the house, before turning his gaze on you all. His face lights up in recognition at the sight of you. “Oh, hey, you’re the girl Lando won’t shut up about! I’m Max, but I’m sure he’s told you all about me, hasn’t he?” 

So this is Max. Lando’s told you a little about him, but mainly just funny stories. You wonder if Max knows his best friend is going around telling girls he’s just met about the time Max walked into a glass sliding door. 

“A little bit, not much. It’s nice to put a face to the name though!” You say politely. 

Max sighs dramatically, shaking his head in faux disappointment. He and Lando must be close. “I’m the best part of his life, and he doesn’t think to share it! What a knob. Anyways, welcome, come on in, make yourselves at home!” 

He ushers you all inside, leading you through the house and out huge double French doors leading to the backyard. The rest of their group sits on couches gathered around a stone fire pit, drinks in hand, chatting amongst themselves until they see you all coming. Max does the introductions between your two groups, but there’s one person missing. The one person you were looking forward to seeing again is nowhere to be found. 

Max must notice how your eyes search for Lando, because he grins knowingly. “He’ll be out in a bit. Work called.” 

“Oh, what does he do?” Samira chimes in. You fight the urge to throw a stone at her, because you know what she’s doing. She’s getting information on Lando because you haven’t got the guts to do it yourself yet. 

“Has he not told you yet?” Max raises a brow, taking a sip of his drink. When you shake your head, he presses his lips together, like he’s debating whether or not to tell you himself. “Yeah, sorry, I think I’m gonna stay out of this one. He gets pissy when I meddle with his budding relationships.” 

Budding relationship. Your face flames hot at the insinuation, but Samira takes it in stride, raising a skeptical brow. 

“What, is he in the mafia or something?” 

“‘Course not, that’s ridiculous. Pretty boy like him, he’d never make it in the mafia,” Max snorts. “No, he’s…look, it’s not really my place to say. I’m sure he’ll tell you when he’s ready.” 

Lando materializes from inside at that very moment, brows furrowed. There’s a tic going off in his jaw and he looks a little pissed off about something, but as soon as he looks up and sees that there’s company, he composes himself in a split second. 

“Hey, guys!” He chirps, hand raising in a wave. He makes his way over to where you all are, plopping down in the empty spot beside you without hesitation. “Glad you could make it.” 

“Thanks for the invite,” Maren replies, ever the polite one. “And the coffee yesterday.” 

Max makes an offended noise from the back of his throat at his friend. “You bought them coffee yesterday? Where was mine? You never buy me coffee.” 

“Mate, you don’t even drink coffee!” 

“Maybe I would if you bought it for me!” 

The two boys continue to bicker with each other in the same way all evening, which leads you to believe this is just how they are with one another. It gives Lando another dimension in your mind, and you like it.

There are a handful of common interests amongst your friends and Lando’s, ones that spark conversation immediately. As the night goes on, it feels like you’ve all been friends for a while, and you’re glad. Part of you was worried things would be awkward between everyone, but thankfully that isn’t the case.

It passes the time quicker than you expect. Soon enough it’s nearing midnight and you’re close to nodding off onto Lando’s shoulder, fighting to stay awake and looped into the ongoing conversation despite the sleep threatening to overtake you.

It certainly doesn’t help that he exudes warmth from where you’ve wound up pressed against each other on the small couch. You turn your head to look at him, to take in the little details of him. The angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose. The smattering of moles across his face and neck.

One wayward curl hangs over his forehead, and you want to reach out, brush it away. You don’t think you’re quite at that stage of comfort with each other yet, but then he tears his attention away from the rest of the group and meets your gaze with what you can only describe as pure fondness dripping from his lazy grin. 

“You alright?” He says softly, shifting his body to face you a little more. 

You nod, because you’re more than alright. For the first time in a while, everything feels just the way it should be. “Are you?” 

“Hm?” Lando replies noncommittally, sipping his drink. “Fine, why?” 

“Earlier, after your phone call, you seemed…upset. I don’t mean to pry, I just wanted to see if everything was alright.” 

“Oh, that? Nah, that was nothing, just my boss. Wanted to talk work stuff, but I wasn’t feeling it, y’know?” He shrugs. It feels like there’s more to what he’s saying, but you don’t want to push too hard. You’re still familiarizing yourself with him. “You’re sweet to check on me, though.” 

“Okay. But if you, um, if you need to talk or anything, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

Lando traces a finger briefly over the thin strap of your dress, just over your shoulder, before dropping his chin into his palm. You already know he’s about to change the subject. Involuntarily, you shiver at his touch, and he definitely notices, because he suddenly looks a little smug.

“Pretty dress,” He hums, tilting his head. 

You weren't trying to make a good impression on Lando, but you weren't exactly not trying, if that makes sense. It doesn't really make sense to you, but you’d gone for cute but comfy with a dress you’d borrowed, hoping it says you’d made an effort, but not too much of one. 

Suddenly you can’t remember what you were just thinking about not being at a certain stage of comfort with one another. Is it weird that you're secretly pleased he liked it enough to mention it?

“It’s not mine,” You say softly. Lando lets out a noise of question. “I borrowed it from Maren.” 

“Ah. Well, you should definitely get one for yourself then. It’s a nice color on you.” 

You want to say thank you, or really just say anything at all, but the moment your gaze flicks back up to his, you’re lost in his eyes again. Everything around you blurs into the background until it feels like it’s just the two of you. You’re teetering on the edge of something, and fuck, it would be so easy to just go over. To let yourself fall and fall and fall into his waiting arms at the bottom. 

Suddenly you hear your own voice in your head.

Don’t get attached. 

Clearing your throat, you pull back from Lando as smooth as you can manage with him muddling up your brain like this. “It’s late. We should get going,” You say, a tad louder than necessary. 

“She’s right,” Camille chimes in, taking note of the slight urgency in your tone. “We’ve got a guided hike in the morning—sunrise, can you believe it?” 

Lando’s mouth dips into a tiny frown for a moment, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared. He nods understandingly. “Sure. I’ll walk you out.” 

You all say your goodbyes and thank you’s, to which the boys wholeheartedly agree you should all do this again sometime before you part ways. 

Lando trails behind a bit like he’s unsure, but catches up to you quickly on the way out, shoulder bumping against yours lightly as you fall into step with each other. His hand brushes yours and lingers a little, pinkies almost intertwining. 

“Tonight was nice,” He says casually. 

“Yeah, it was,” You agree, bobbing your head. 

“Would you—I dunno, maybe want to hang out again?”

“With you guys? ‘Course we would, I’m sure the girls would love to.” You smile, casting a glance at your friends. They’ve all coincidentally already gotten into the car, but if you squint hard enough you can see them gawking at Lando and yourself through the windshield.

How very not subtle of them. 

Lando rocks on the balls of his feet almost nervously, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “No, I meant, like…just the two of us.” 

“You mean, like, alone?” 

“A date. I’m trying to ask you out on a date,” He blurts, nose scrunching. “And failing miserably apparently.” 

“Oh!” You feel your face burn hot, yet you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried. You’re about to take him up on the offer, but before you can say a word, another voice pops into the conversation. 

“Yes! She says yes! Whatever you’re asking, her answer is yes!” Samira yells through the window enthusiastically, muffled through the glass but still very audible.

Neither you nor Lando can stop the laughs that escape your mouths, especially when you turn around and all three girls are shooting you excited thumbs ups. 

“Guess that’s settled then,” You giggle, turning back to face him. 

“It’s a date.” He pushes forward, catching you by surprise when he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. As cliche as it sounds, the touch of his lips against your skin, although fleeting, sends a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. “I’ll text you later to plan, yeah? Get home safe.” 

He waits for you to pull around the circular driveway, and as his waving form gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, a glimmer of hope worms its way through you. 

In the back of your mind, you know you should keep it in check. This could be totally casual. A short summer fling that won’t hurt anyone no matter how it ends. But maybe, just maybe, it could turn into something more. 

-------

Your schedules don't end up giving you a free afternoon together until a few days later, though you come to realize it only makes you look forward to seeing Lando again even more. 

You're supposed to be meeting him at the local market in the center of town at half past one, but you find yourself there early, wanting to get a lay of the land before he gets there.

Evidently Lando had the same idea, because you spot him within the first few steps into the open air marketplace, squatting next to a stand with crates and buckets of bright flowers. He’s already got a bouquet clutched in his hands, but still he browses through the different bunches. 

“Flowers for Max?” You joke. 

Lando shoots to his feet so fast he nearly hits his head on the lightbulb hanging above, only managing to miss it by mere inches as he startles at the sudden voice. When he realizes it’s just you, he snorts with laughter. “He wishes! They’re for you, actually.” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, you,” He says teasingly. You don’t even know what to say. Flowers on the first date might be normal, yet nobody’s ever done it for you before. You’re touched, but he must take your silence as something else, because his smile drops the tiniest bit. “Unless you see something you like better? I can still put these back.” 

You study the flowers he’s picked out already. A little on the smaller side, it boasts a beautiful mix of both soft and brighter colors while still being simple—it’s exactly the sort of thing you would’ve chosen if you were buying flowers for yourself. “They’re perfect.” 

He pays for the flowers and passes them over to you with the biggest smile on his face, one that grows even bigger when you tuck them carefully into the crook of your arm after giving the delicate blossoms a sniff. 

You notice the camera hanging around his neck at that moment, despite knowing close to nothing about golf, you do know a thing or two about photography. “Golfer and photographer? Impressive.” 

“Amateur at best.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you're just being modest.” 

“Not even a little bit. I just enjoy taking pictures of things I like.” 

He swings around to face you fully, bringing the camera up to his eye and pausing only a second to make sure you're in focus before snapping a photo of you. The shutter clicks twice before you have the sense to hold up a hand out in front of you, a surprised laugh spilling from your mouth. Even then he grins, takes another one before lowering the camera. "What, you don't like having your photo taken?" 

“I’m just not very photogenic!” 

Lando scoffs immediately, shooting you a pointed look. “That is such a lie.” 

“I probably just broke your fancy expensive camera,” You joke. 

“We’ll just have to wait til I get it developed and see. I think it’ll turn out wonderful.” 

“And if it doesn’t?” 

“I’ll buy you dinner. If I’m right, then…you let me buy you dinner.” 

You let out a noise of surprise. “Well, that doesn’t seem very fair, does it? You’d have to buy me dinner either way.” 

“I can think of worse things than taking a pretty girl out for a nice meal.” His words take you by surprise, but judging by the smug grin on his face, Lando takes pride in eliciting a reaction from you. “Shall we?” And just like that, he’s sauntering off down the path like he didn’t just leave you at a loss for words, pep in his step even as he turns around to shoot you a roguish smile. “You coming or what?” 

You push aside the fluttering in your chest, giving your head an amused shake before catching up with him. It’s cute that he thinks he’s funny. Even cuter that he seems rather eager to take you out on a second date before the first one has even started. 

The two of you wander through the market aimlessly, stopping here and there at various stalls to have a look around. If you had the means, you’d buy everything you see. You wind up picking up some gorgeous looking fruit and a bottle of locally pressed wine, a few small souvenirs for your family back home, but the most important thing you buy isn’t even for you. 

Lando had lingered at a stall selling handmade jewelry early on, seemingly interested in a woven bracelet of blues and whites, but didn't pick it up. Part of you wonders why, but it sparks an idea in your head. 

You tug at Lando’s arm lightly, smiling guiltily when he turns to look at you. “I think I left my phone at that fruit stand a few stalls back.” 

“You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your body, you muppet,” He chides, shaking his head fondly. “C’mon, let’s find it.” 

“No, I can get it. Why don’t you find us something good for lunch? I’m starving.” 

“Are you sure?” Lando cocks his head, shoulder bumping against yours. “I don’t mind.” 

“I’ll be right back,” You promise. To sweeten the deal, you make the bold move of pressing a kiss to his cheek. He freezes under your touch, but you pass it off as him not expecting it and being taken by surprise. “Two minutes, okay? Maybe less.” 

As soon as you confirm he isn’t paying any attention to you, you slip back through the crowd, finding the same stall and buying the bracelet he’d been looking at. You tuck it safely into your pocket, quickly making your way back to Lando before he realizes you’ve been gone long and comes looking for you. 

“All good?” He asks upon noticing you reappear by his side. 

You wiggle your phone in the air. “Never better. What's for lunch?” 

Lando grins happily, reciting the spiel that the very friendly older man at the food stand gave to him when he’d decided on the delicious looking food. Sure, maybe he stumbles over his pronunciation a little bit, but you find his giggled embarrassment sweet. 

You find a semi-secluded bench a little jaunt away to enjoy your food, and you do enjoy it. You think it might be one of the best things you’ve ever had, and when you tell Lando, he looks pleasantly surprised. As you continue to savor every bite, Lando’s eyes light up with amusement, so much so that you wonder what’s suddenly got him all smiling big like this. 

“What?” You say incredulously. 

He gestures to the lower part of his face. “You’ve got a little…” 

Mortified, you mirror his actions on your own face, searching for the food you’ve somehow gotten smudged on your chin. After a few tries that have him shaking his head, you whine, “Help me, please?”, to which he obliges with a soft chuckle. He reaches out, thumb rubbing at the corner of your mouth briefly. 

This moment almost seems too intimate, but then again, so have a lot of moments between the two of you. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’ve still got something on your face, but then his gaze flicks down to your lips again almost imperceptibly, and you have an inkling of what’s about to happen. 

“Did you get it?” You ask softly. You’re not sure why you break the silence, but it's definitely not because you don’t want him to kiss you. If you think about it, you’ve wanted Lando to kiss you this whole time. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I got it," He replies. His hand lingers, long fingers splaying flat under the curve of your jaw now. You surprise yourself by shifting forward slightly, as if encouraging Lando to close the gap. He leans in closer and closer still, and your eyes fall shut on their own accord, heartbeat hammering against your rib cage. 

You nearly melt the moment his lips touch yours, held up only by the firm grasp of his hand cupping your face. It’s a little awkward with the food in between the two of you blocking you from pushing closer to him, but you make it work, reaching over it to wrap your fingers around Lando’s forearm. You feel like you need it to ground yourself, because holy shit, you’re kissing him. 

Well, more like he’s kissing you, because you’re definitely not the one leading the way. Lando kisses like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and judging by how you feel weak in the knees when you’re not even standing, he does know exactly what he’s doing. 

You’re falling, falling, falling, getting lost in him, until— 

“Wait, hang on,” He breathes, pulling away. Your eyes flutter open in an almost dazed sort of way, focusing on him in hopes of finding him in the same state, but all you’re met with is…guilt? Sadness? Shame? Maybe a mixture of everything, you’re not sure. All you know is that it has your heart plummeting in your chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Everything hits you at once, and suddenly you’re crashing back down to reality. Lando thinks kissing you was a mistake. You were so sure he liked you back, sure enough to go on a date with him, and now here you are with egg on your face, feeling unbelievably stupid. Hurt. 

“I’m gonna—I have to go,” You mumble, scrambling to your feet. You don’t even have an excuse prepared, you just need to get out of here, get away from Lando before you spontaneously combust from the sheer embarrassment. 

His hand encircles your wrist before you can make it even a step away. 

“No, no, don’t! Please, just let me…let me explain. I promise things will all make sense in a second, if you’ll just hear me out,” He says pleadingly. Despite your better judgment, you sit back down, expression guarded. Lando blows out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. “Look, I like you. I really like you, and I wish things were as simple as that, but there’s things I’ve not told you. Things that, if you knew, you might not want to be with me.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, burying your burning face into your hands with a muffled groan. “Oh my god, you are in the mafia, aren’t you?” 

“The—what?” Lando blurts, sounding wildly confused. “No, I’m not, I’m not in the mafia. Are you mad? I’m a Formula 1 driver!” 

You crack one eye open, then the other. “Formula 1.” You repeat, disbelieving. “Like, the racing thing?”  

He nods enthusiastically, tells you everything—how his childhood dream turned into a career, how he gets to travel all around the world doing what he loves. The fame, the lifestyle, the opportunities he’s worked so hard for, all while sounding entirely humble and grateful for everything and everyone who’ve gotten him to where he is today. 

It’s impressive, to say the least. The fact that he’s still fairly young and has already accomplished more than what some people have in a whole lifetime. Then he gets to how the chaos that doing what he does at the level he does it at wreaks havoc on other parts of his life, and you feel a wave of sympathy roll over you. 

The tradeoff for all that success is not getting to have a normal life in almost every aspect, and given the downward set of his brow as he tells you about it, this isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation with someone. 

“It makes being in a relationship…difficult, is the best way I can describe it. I’m never in one place more than a week most times, and the whole time zones thing makes it harder too. And after these two weeks are up, I’m already off to somewhere else, jumping right back into the second half of the season and hitting the ground running.” 

Realization hits you like a truck at this point, and you have to fight the urge to laugh out loud. Of course Lando is who he is. Of course you had to form a connection with someone with a life as complicated and as far away from your own as possible, someone who couldn’t be in a normal relationship even if he wanted to. 

“I wish it were different, but I just—I wanted you to know what you might be getting into if we…” He trails off, but you know what he means. If we want to get involved with each other. If we want to be together. 

“So like, long distance, but infinitely harder.” You’re doing your best to put a light spin on the massive amount of new information you’ve just acquired, but you’re barely managing to process it all, let alone even think about what it would be like to date someone as well known as Lando. 

“Yeah, something like that,” He says softly, shoulders creeping up towards his ears. “It’s—well, it’s a lot of baggage for anyone to have to deal with. Lots of eyes and ears, pretty public. Not really your cup of tea, I’ve noticed.” 

He’s right. You’ve never been one to enjoy being the center of attention, preferring to fly under the radar. Blend into the background. And you hate to say it, but knowing all of what he’s just told you changes things. You don’t think you can handle being thrust into the public eye, and it makes you feel like the most selfish person in the world to walk away from him just because of who he happens to be. 

Your life would be forever altered, your sense of privacy and security gone, and that isn’t something you want to compromise. You’re comfortable being nobody significant. With Lando, that would change, no matter how many measures you take to make sure it doesn’t. 

As much as you’ve come to like him—and you really like him—it’s just not something you can see yourself being fully okay with. 

“I’m so sorry, Lando,” You say quietly. He just smiles sadly, like he already knew it was coming, and you can't help but think about how many relationships—platonic or romantic—that he's lost out on because of his status. The thought alone makes you feel even worse. “I like you too, but I can’t—I don’t think I can be what you want me to be. It’s not me, it’s not the way I can live my life.” 

“Don’t be sorry. You haven’t got a reason to be,” He murmurs, thumb rubbing across your knuckles comfortingly. “Knew it was too good to be true, didn’t I?” 

“I’m sorry,” You say again, hoping that Lando knows you truly mean it. “I wish it were different, but—”

Lando shakes his head, interrupting before you can grasp for any other ways to apologize. He squeezes your hand reassuringly again. “Hey. It’s alright, I promise. I’d never ask anyone to do something they aren��t comfortable with. Especially not you.” 

Even when he’s sad, he’s still so thoughtful. It would take a different kind of awful monster not to want to be with him. Apparently that monster is you. 

You wish you were someone else, someone who could take huge changes in stride and never miss a step, but you’re not. Someone who knows what they want and goes for it—who knows who they want and doesn’t let anything get in their way. 

Unfortunately, you’re not that kind of person. 

“What do we do now?” 

Lando drops your hand to run his fingers through his curls, down to the back of his neck sheepishly. “Dunno about you, but I’ve—d’you think there’s any chance we can still be friends? I really do enjoy spending time with you lot, we all do.” 

“Friends would be nice,” You say softly. It feels strange to agree with him so wholeheartedly. 

Maybe it’ll be awkward between the two of you, maybe you won’t even be able to sit next to each other with what’s happened today, but you can’t bring yourself to care all that much. The only thought running through your mind is that you don’t want to lose Lando, even as just a friend. 

You’ve gotten attached. 

The bracelet you’d bought Lando burns a hole through your pocket. It would be weird to give it to him now, after you’d just turned him down, but you can’t exactly just return it either. You don’t really want to. 

Maybe it won’t go to him, but you’re sure you’ll find something to do with it someday.

The girls are waiting in the living room when you finally make your way home, gathered on the sofa with identical innocent smiles like you hadn’t seen them with their heads poked through the curtains. Samira bounces off the cushions with what you can only describe as a gleeful cackle to grab your flowers, showing them off to the other two like a game show host before grabbing your hand and dragging you into the center of their blanket pile. 

You know they're expecting good news and you wish you could give it to them, but you can’t. 

“So??? How’d it go?” 

“He got her flowers, obviously it went well!” 

“Okay, spill, now,” Camille presses, easing the bouquet out of Samira’s hands and setting it on the coffee table. “What’s he like, what’d you do—” 

“When’s your second date?” chimes in Maren excitedly. The other two nod their vigorous agreement. 

“Lando’s amazing,” You sigh, letting yourself fall back against the plush pillows. “He’s super sweet and really funny, we walked around and looked at all the vendors, and then we had lunch and talked for ages, and…there won’t be a second date.”

“What? That’s impossible, you guys were like, made for each other!” 

You sigh, rub at a flower petal that’s fallen away from the bouquet. “It’s complicated. I don’t—I’m not ready to get into all of it again this soon, but long story short, our lives are just too different. Being with him would mean compromising things I’m just not ready to lose right now.” 

If any of them wants to push for a better explanation, and you know they do, they refrain from doing so. They know you’ll tell them when you’re ready. 

But even Samira can tell you’re not quite as okay as you insist you are, and she’s been rooting for you extra hard. She leans her head onto your shoulder, squeezes your hand reassuringly. “You did what was best for you, and that’s all that matters.” 

“We agreed to still be friends, so we can still hang out with the guys and stuff like that, but—I mean, yeah, it just didn’t work out.” You don’t think you sound very convincing at all, but it’s the bed you've made, you’ve got to lay in it. “I just don’t really want to talk about it right now, but it's fine. I'm fine.” 

It has to be. You have to be. You’ve made sure of it.

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[darlingofvalyria]

❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n�� i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing  against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

[amara-scott]

Hi, could you write a short story about yn x mattheo, exes to lovers ?

Tnxxx 💚💚

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Fandom: Harry Potter / Slytherin Boys

The crisp morning light woke me with delight as I sat up in bed, stretching my tired limbs. I rub my right eye, glancing around and see everyone still asleep. With a sigh I swing my legs over the edge of my bed. Grabbing the glass of water on my nightstand I freeze. A piece of parchment lying on the floor catches my attention.

It’s stuck under the corner of my dark teak night stand and I know exactly what’s written on it. Words in ink filled with emotions that I would never look at the same again. The first ever letter he wrote me. I kept it under my bed, a reminder of our unspoken promises. Promises we couldn’t keep apparently, hence why we’re now back to strangers and won’t be sharing any more late night talks and loving moments.

With a deep sigh I stand up, slip into my cozy morning shoes and make my way out the room quietly, catching a small glimpse of a peacefully snoring Pansy, lips apart and looking restful, a rare sight for such a vivid Slytherin girl. I grin at the view and make my way out the door. It must be very early- the clock on the wall in the common room proving me right. 6:12 a.m.

The chill of early November crept through the stone walls, weaving its way into the heart of Slytherin’s dungeons. The fire crackled faintly in the common room, casting shadows over the green and silver tapestries that adorned the walls. It was a beautiful scene, but right now it felt suffocating.

I grab a plush green comforter off the velvet couch and get comfortable. A few other students already sitting in different corners lit up by the cool glow of the black lakes filtered lights.

„Quite early, don’t you think?“

I turn my head to see Theo walking over. With one once over I realize he’s not woken up but just coming back from the roof top party at the Ravenclaw tower. I didn’t go but it must have been good if he’s only back now.

The circles under his eyes are deeper and the smirk he wears looks lazy. He flops down next to me, throwing his arm over my shoulder and takes my hand, twirling my ring around. A habit of showing me he cares. That he’s present. He’s done that since we were kids, running around the house with our moms gossiping in the kitchen.

„Quite late for you Teddy, don’t you think?“

He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back. „You missed a really good party, I told you to come.”

“Nah, I’m not really into parties-“

“-since you broke up.” He cuts me off, stating the obvious. I look at him, hearing the slight concern in his voice and I sigh deeply. He raises a brow at me, challenging me to prove him wrong- but I know he sees right through me.

“Well, technically he broke up with me, so,”

“Yn, it’s been- two months? Three? I want my best friend back.”

“Sorry to disappoint Teddy, I just never went through a break up-“ I pull my hand from his grasp and stand up, collecting the blanket and decide to leave this room, as he’s clearly not understanding my side of the story well enough.

“Yn- wait! I’m sorry, hey-“

He stands up after me and holds onto my wrist, walking around me to block my way. He doesn’t let go as he tilts his head, giving me look- a look that breaks my charade and I bite my lip as my eyes fill with the past months- a time in which I barely knew what happened and didn’t understand why.

As the first tear slips down my cheek and his hand cups my face, wiping it away- I break down. Fully sobbing now. I throw myself into his chest and he holds me. My hands gripping his cotton shirt tightly as I close my eyes, burying my face into his shoulder.

“Yn, hey- shh,” he strokes my hair gently holding me, “if he wasn’t my best mate- I’d have hung him off the astronomy tower first thing.”

I let out a small laugh, probably sounding like I choked on my breath. We stay like that for a moment and I open my eyes once more as I hear footsteps coming down the stairs from the entrance of the common room.

I hold my breath as he comes into view, his eyes fierce but tired. He skips down the stairs and another pair of steps follows quickly after. Another Slytherin girl, Felice, I believe. “Wait up, Matt!” She hurries down after Mattheo, quickly hooking her arm with his but he seems unbothered, barely grazing her with his eyes. His walk determined and heading for his dorm room.

For a brief moment our eyes meet- time seems to slow down. But as quickly as he came- he left. With her.

“-yn?” I glance up at Theo, who’s holding me at arms length. “Are you okay?” He obviously hasn’t seen them both. Probably coming from that same party. Probably doing- Merlin knows what. Will he kiss her? The way he kissed me? Hold her and call her beautiful? Make her feel special and wanted?

“Hey-“ Theo slightly shakes me and I blink a few times.

“Yeah- sure.” I clear my throat and step back, his hands falling from my arms. “I need some food.”

I turn swiftly and head toward the stairs, ready to run. “Yn-“ His hand holds my arm once more stopping me in my tracks.

“What?” I sound harsh, not meaning it that way but he frowns, his hand dropping.

“If you can’t talk to me about it- talk to Pansy, alright?” He sounds stern and scolding, like a parent ready to give me house arrest if I snapped once more.

“Sorry, Teddy. I will, okay?” He nods, watching me walk off and I hurry out, ready to dive into some food and forget about my broken heart.

__

It happened a few more times on which I spotted him with a girl, enjoying himself but looking tired. Why is he so tired? Enzo blurted out that he tosses a lot at night. And murmurs in his sleep. The urge to cross the room and shake him, asking for his well-being.. it grew so strong. I had to snap back into reality to regain my focus on the present.

“If you keep chewing on your lip- there won’t be any more need for a red lipstick.” Pansy drops and keeps eating her breakfast. I glance over and gulp, having been caught once again. Her gaze is fixed on the table, pouring more syrup on her waffles.

“And if you keep eating so much syrup-“

Pansy glares at Draco, stopping him mid-sentence. The smirk on his face drops and he looks ahead, a slight red tint on his cheeks. “Thought so-“ Pansy mumbles and turns back to her food, aggressively pouring even more syrup and looking at Draco. He avoids her eyes.

I grin and giggle as Theo suddenly plops down next to me, a deep satisfied sigh leaving him. “Hello everyone, I hope you had a wonderful night.” We all stare at him as he fills his plate generously, starting to dig in some eggs and toast. His loud chewing triggering me. He glances up and stops. “Mhuat?” He asks with a mouth full.

“What has you all cheery and delighted?” Blaise pipes up from across with a smirk, and I wonder if he already knows. Theo sends him a look and shakes his head, continuing to eat.

“Nothing. Why?”

“You seem oddly happy.” I add and pop another strawberry into my mouth.

“Oh! Yeah, I almost forgot to tell you-“ He turns to me and holds my shoulder, tilting his head down, giving me a goofy smile. I can’t help but grin back with a raised eyebrow.

“-we’re going to go on a date today, just you and me.” My confused look must have felt like a rejection as he frowns, his hand still on me. The gears turning in my head as I start to register his words.

"What?"

"A... date? Teddy—"

"—no! No, not like a romantic candlelight dinner date. Just a friendly date. A playdate— I mean, you know?" His cheeks grow red as he fumbles with his words and I giggle, leaning forward to slap his shoulder.

"You're a bloody git!"

"Is that a— yes?"

"Yes." I roll my eyes and a wave of relief and excitement surged through him. Without missing a beat, Theo pumped his fist in the air and struck a triumphant pose.

"I still got it."

"You're terrible, Theo" Pansy adds and glares at him playfully. "I thought I needed to slap you too." Her words sink in and my smile slightly falters for a brief moment. But I replace it with a fake one, only glancing over to him once more. Sitting close by and probably having heard everything. A new girl by his side, chewing his ear off as she rambles on, not even having touched her food. His eyes don't find me, but rather an oblivious Theo. The deadly stare almost having me in a choke.

—

We walked arm in arm, Theo’s laughter echoing in the cool air as he recounted a story from our younger years, how we accidentally hexed another student and left them with bright green hair in Potions class. I laughed along, grateful for the distraction.

As we approached Honeydukes, Theo suddenly suggested we stop for some sweets before dinner. “You can’t go to the Three Broomsticks without a handful of Chocolate Frogs,” he said with a grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Is that so?” I teased, nudging him playfully. “Or is this just your excuse to load up on sweets?”

“Maybe a bit of both,” he admitted, flashing me that charming smile that had gotten us both out of trouble countless times over the years.

We stepped inside the shop, and I let the warm, sugary scent wash over me, trying to forget about everything that had been weighing on my mind. Theo led me through the aisles, pointing out our favorite treats and making jokes that had me laughing in spite of myself. For a moment, it was just like old times, before everything got complicated.

But then, as we were browsing, something caught Theo’s eye. I followed his gaze and felt my heart stutter in my chest. Standing just outside the shop, leaning against the wall with that same brooding expression I had come to know too well, was Mattheo. And he wasn’t alone—a girl I didn’t recognize was with him, standing too close, her hand brushing against his arm.

Theo stiffened beside me, his playful demeanor faltering for just a moment. “Let’s get out of here,” he said softly, his voice steady but laced with something I couldn’t quite place. He grabbed my hand, leading me toward the counter to pay for the sweets. I followed him, trying to keep my emotions in check, but the sight of Mattheo with someone else had left me reeling.

The rain came down in torrents, soaking us to the bone as we stepped out of Honeydukes. The earlier warmth of the evening had vanished, replaced by a biting chill that seemed to seep into my very core. Theo held my hand tightly, guiding me through the downpour as we headed toward the Three Broomsticks. His usual lightheartedness was gone, replaced by a tension I couldn’t quite place.

Just as we reached the midpoint, I spotted Mattheo. He was standing across, still leaning against the wall, his eyes dark and stormy as they locked onto us. The girl beside him said something, but he didn’t seem to hear her, his focus entirely on Theo and me. My heart twisted at the sight of him—he looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his expression a mixture of anger and something deeper, something that sent a shiver down my spine.

Before I could react, Mattheo pushed away from the wall and started toward us, his movements sharp and deliberate. The girl called after him, but he ignored her, his gaze never leaving me. The rain blurred his figure slightly, but I could see the tension in his posture, the way his fists clenched at his sides as he approached.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mattheo’s voice was low, dangerous, and filled with an anger as he addressed Theo. He stopped just a few feet away, the rain pouring down between us like a curtain.

Theo squared his shoulders, his jaw tightening as he faced Mattheo. “Taking care of her,” he replied, his tone steady but laced with frustration. “Something you should have been doing instead of running away.”

“Taking care of her?” Mattheo’s eyes flashed with fury as he stepped closer, his voice rising. “By dragging her out here and parading her around? What the hell is wrong with you?”

I tried to step between them, to calm them down, but they were too focused on each other, the storm between them raging out of control. “Stop it, both of you!” I shouted, but my voice was lost in the wind and rain.

Theo didn’t back down, his eyes locked on Mattheo’s. “What’s really wrong, Mattheo? Is it that I’m here for her, or that you know you should be?”

Mattheo’s fists clenched even tighter, and for a moment, I thought he might actually hit Theo. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled, his voice shaking with barely restrained emotion. “You have no idea what I’ve been through, what I’ve been trying to protect her from.”

“Protect her?” Theo’s voice rose with incredulity, and he took a step closer, his face inches from Mattheo’s. “You don’t get to play the martyr here, Mattheo. You left her! You broke her heart because you were too much of a coward to face your own feelings!”

Mattheo’s eyes widened in shock, and for a split second, the anger faltered, replaced by something that looked like betrayal. Then, without warning, he shoved Theo hard, sending him stumbling back a few steps. “You don’t know anything!” Mattheo shouted, his voice cracking with the weight of his emotions.

Theo recovered quickly, his face contorted with a mix of anger and shock. “I know more than you think,” he shot back, his voice cold. “I know you’re scared, Mattheo. Scared of how much you care about her. Scared that if you let yourself love her, you’ll lose her. And instead of facing that, you ran. You ran because you couldn’t handle the thought of losing her, even if it meant breaking her heart!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as Mattheo stared at Theo, his face pale as if the truth had been dragged out of him against his will. The tension between them was electric, the storm around us seeming to mirror the storm inside Mattheo.

I felt my heart pound in my chest, the world spinning as the realization hit me—Theo had known all along. He had known why Mattheo ended things, and he had kept it from me.

Mattheo’s breath was ragged, his eyes wild with a mixture of fury and pain. “You think you know me so well?” he hissed, shoving Theo again, harder this time. “You think you have all the answers? You have no idea what it’s like to be me, to have to constantly worry about losing everything you care about. I was trying to protect her!”

Theo pushed back, and suddenly they were throwing fists, their anger boiling over into physical blows. I screamed for them to stop, but they were too far gone, too consumed by their emotions. They grappled in the rain, slipping on the wet cobblestones, their shouts mingling with the roar of the storm.

“You don’t get to decide what’s best for her!” Theo yelled as he landed a punch to Mattheo’s jaw. “You don’t get to break her heart and then claim it was for her own good!”

Mattheo staggered back, wiping blood from his lip, his eyes filled with anguish. “I didn’t want to hurt her!” he shouted, his voice breaking as he swung at Theo again. “I didn’t want to put her in danger! But I couldn’t... I couldn’t stop caring about her. And that scared the hell out of me!”

Theo blocked the punch, pushing Mattheo away with a look of raw fury. “Then you should have stayed! You should have fought for her instead of running like a coward!”

Mattheo’s shoulders slumped as the fight seemed to drain out of him, the weight of his guilt and fear finally breaking through. He looked at me then, his eyes filled with a pain so deep it made my breath catch. “I was scared, Y/N,” he confessed, his voice trembling. “I’ve never cared about anyone like I care about you. I didn’t know how to handle it, how to deal with the thought of losing you. So I pushed you away, thinking it would be easier. But it wasn’t. It was hell. I was trying to protect you, but all I did was hurt you.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, as the rain poured down around us. The world seemed to stand still as I stared at him, my heart aching with the truth of his words.

Theo stepped back, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back his own emotions. He looked at Mattheo, then at me, and finally, the anger in his eyes softened. “He’s telling the truth, Y/N,” Theo said quietly, his voice hoarse from the shouting. “He was scared, and he messed up.”

Mattheo’s gaze locked onto mine, his eyes pleading. “I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I need you to know that I never stopped caring. I never stopped needing you. And if there’s even the slightest chance that you can forgive me, I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that I’m not going to run away again.”

The rain continued to pour, drenching us all, but I barely felt it. All I could see was Mattheo, standing there with his heart on his sleeve, vulnerable in a way I had never seen before. And I realized that despite everything, despite the pain and the anger, I still cared. I still felt something for him, something deep and undeniable.

I took a shaky breath, my voice barely a whisper as I spoke. “You broke my heart, Mattheo. But if you’re serious about making things right... if you’re really willing to fight for this... then maybe, just maybe, we can find a way to fix what’s been broken.”

Mattheo’s eyes widened in surprise, hope flickering in their depths. “I’ll prove it to you, Y/N. I swear I will.”

Theo, drenched and exhausted, gave me a small nod of approval, stepping back to give us space. The tension between them had finally eased, replaced by an unspoken understanding.

As we stood there in the pouring rain, I realized that this wasn’t the end of our story—it was the beginning of something new. Something that would take time, patience, and a lot of healing. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like we were on the right path.

“Okay.”

—

—

—

I’m so sorry this is so longggg even though you requested a short story, I got carried away 🥹🤞🏼I hope you still enjoy 💜

[ananxiousgenz]

HEY YOU GUYS KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS????? JARTHUR COWBOY AU TIME!!!!!

this one also comes with a bit of info for the beginning:

@percymawce-arts and I have finally given this monster child of ours a name!! from here on out, this fic shall be known as "When the Land was Godless and Free" (a lyric from the song foreigner's god by hozier)!

the chapters we are posting are like. severely out of order. we've just been going crazy behind the scenes (we keep getting good ideas and then discussing/writing them for literal hours, it's a great time). percy basically wrote all of this and i just did some minor edits and left all caps comments screaming about how fucking GOOD this is, so any and all compliments should be directed at him <3

and some trigger warnings: this chapter contains alcohol and some suggestive themes!!

@izel-reblogs and @ellamenop (if you guys want me to stop tagging you please lmk)

“Here’s to John and Arthur! Arthur and John!” Noel shouted, stepping up onto the bar and raising his beer, some of it sloshing over the side of the cup with the motion. “Freaky-ass, sharpshooting, vigilante crime-fighting extraordinaires! Without you two, those gangsters would still be shooting up this charming little town.” He flashed a wink and a gaggle of girls seated behind John giggled. John rolled his eyes. “To John and Arthur!”

“To John and Arthur!” the bar echoed, jovial sounds of conversation and rowdy drinking soon filling the space again. John smiled into his drink, only to choke and nearly fall out of his chair when Noel clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Get ready for a lot of free drinks,” he said, hopping down to the floor. “This town’s full of generous rich folks just waiting for a chance to throw some money around.” 

John groaned. “Does that mean I have to talk to people?”

“I’m afraid so, darlin’,” Noel said, all easy charm and swagger as he leaned up against the bar next to John. “Uh oh. Don’t look now, but there’s one coming up behind you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John swore under his breath as a young blonde woman in a pink (and startlingly revealing) dress came up to the bar beside him. “That was fast,” he whispered to Noel, who barely managed to hide a snigger.

“Hi!” the woman squealed, her pitch akin to metal nails on glass. John winced. Voice aside, her general disposition was the near equivalent to staring straight into the afternoon sun, and the neon pink of her dress didn’t help matters.

“Can I buy you a drink, cowboy?” she crooned, gently brushing a hand over his shoulder as she smiled far too brightly (the whole blind sharpshooter gig tended to work better when only one of them was blind). 

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I don’t-”

“It’s on the house for you, sweetheart. I’ll pay for everything, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. So, how about that drink?” She moved in closer beside him, her hand drifting up his neck and along his jawline. John was only beginning to think of how to politely decline when he felt a looming presence over his shoulder.

“Only if you buy for all of us,” Arthur said, not unkindly. But John had been traveling with him for long enough to recognize the hint of something else beneath the politeness. Not what it was, just that it was there. The woman giggled.

“Well, of course! Anything for our dashing heroes!” John glanced over his shoulder at Arthur. His face was set in stone, watching the woman like a hawk on a rabbit as she slipped a few coins into the bartender’s hand and waited for drinks in return. He looked… tense. Like he was a piece of rope, stretched to the verge of snapping, and if that annoying woman made one wrong move, he would.

Noel raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “You must be a real hit with the ladies,” he murmured into his glass, looking Arthur up and down as he did so. Arthur paid him no mind.

The sunshine woman was not the last to buy them a round of drinks, not by a long shot. Plenty of flirtatious ladies (and a few flirtatious men), thankful patrons and impressed watchmen approached them, hoping to show their gratitude by buying them a shot or a glass of whiskey. Arthur didn’t leave John’s side the whole night, quick to shut down any attempts at seduction by feigning ignorance to the intentions of anyone who approached them. But John knew better. John could see the hard set of his jaw, how he gripped his glass too tightly whenever a scantily clad lady twirled her hair around her finger, or a rambunctious young cowboy leaned too far into John’s personal space. It made John’s heart flutter wildly in his chest. 

The drinks only slowed as the saloon emptied out, leaving Noel, Arthur and John three sheets to the wind, laughing uproariously at something stupid as the morning sun came over the horizon (Oscar had retired hours before, drunker than anyone at the bar much, much faster. Arthur had squeezed his shoulder and bid him goodnight with an expression of concern that made John’s heart clench).

Noel wiped tears from his eyes and looked over John’s shoulder, out the window behind him. When he saw the beginnings of daylight creeping over the horizon, he sighed. (He watched them, Arthur and John, engaged in a quiet but passionate discussion about something he couldn’t parse. They were both flushed and leaning in too close, chuckling at every other word that passed between them, oblivious to the rising sun or the empty saloon or Noel’s hands on their arms, steering them towards their room at the inn upstairs).

John chuckled (he did not giggle, he chuckled) as Noel tossed him into their rented room, with Arthur following soon after. He tripped over a trunk near the foot of the bed on his way in, falling forward onto the mattress with a gentle oof. Arthur laughed at him much too loudly for whatever time it was. 

“Alright, you two,” Noel said, trying to hold back a laugh, “wash up and go to bed. God, I should’ve never given that toast, you’re both insufferable drunks.”

“Oh, shhhhhhh,” Arthur hushed, pulling John out of bed by his wrist. John leaned fully against Arthur in an effort to stay upright. It mostly worked. “You loooooove us,” he laughed. Noel smiled.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to keep the fond expression off his face. “You keep telling yourselves that.” He wiped his nose and tipped his hat to them. “Goodnight, you two.” Then he closed the door, and it was just them. John and Arthur, Arthur and John. 

“Okay, come on,” John said after a long stretch of silence, inelegantly turning Arthur in the direction of their shared washbasin and mirror. Arthur giggled a bit as John tried to move him forward, mumbling some drinking song under his breath that John didn’t recognize (maybe it’s a British one, John thought lamely). They tripped over each other's feet a few times, but ultimately made it to the edge of the sink without completely falling over. 

When they did, John braced his hands on either side of it with a tired sigh, watching his reflection in the mirror. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead and a flush to his cheeks from the alcohol, but otherwise he seemed in decent condition. A few cuts and scrapes, some new and some old, and his braid was a little out of sorts, but nothing really concerning–

Then all the haziness of the alcohol and the late night was gone because Arthur’s full weight was at his back, his warmth permeating the fabric of John’s shirt and vest. His hot breath fanned across John’s ear and jaw, his eyes fluttering closed with the weight of inebriation. John inhaled shakily, suddenly brought back to shifting bodies and whiskey and fireworks with such vivid clarity it could have been real.

But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. John was drunk. Arthur was drunk, he could barely stand up straight, for fucks sake. He was just using John for support, falling asleep on his shoulder, and… 

And pressing his nose behind John’s ear, ghosting his lips over the back of his jaw. Breathing his name with a pained expression. John’s own expression matched, half lidded eyes never leaving the mirror, tense and pained and wanting, oh-so deeply, for the one thing he knew he couldn’t have.

Despite himself, John’s eyes slipped closed. His shoulders relaxed, tension leaving his body as Arthur hands came up to rest on his hips. His head tilted, granting Arthur access to more of his jaw and neck. And Arthur took it. He didn’t kiss, but he skimmed. Barely there, almost not real, deniable. Like a spirit. Like a gut feeling. Like instinct.

“John…” Arthur breathed. John felt a shiver work its way down his spine at the sound of Arthur’s voice at the base of his skull, reverberating in his head like it was meant to be there. It took every ounce of will that John had to keep the small moan building in the base of his throat from escaping.

“Arthur,” he answered, voice hoarse and quiet. He wanted to open his eyes. Wanted to see himself in the mirror with Arthur over his shoulder, arms around him, nosing at his neck and shoulder, resisting the urge to press warm kisses into his skin. Or maybe to bite. To draw blood. John had never been shown a difference between violence and love. Maybe they weren’t so different. He hoped so. He wanted… 

He wanted to see the look on Arthur’s face. Would it be like it was that day in the cabin? Shocked and a little confused but mostly needy. Yearning for something. Yearning for John. Or would it be darker? Dark like the clouds before a storm, the kind of storm that drowned you with rain and filled the air with electricity. Would it be dark like he was holding back? Like John was? 

But John didn’t open his eyes, no matter how badly he wanted to know. If his eyes stayed closed, he could pretend Arthur’s gentle, delicate touch wasn’t there at all. Just a taste of something more, enough to leave John wanting. Enough for him to imagine. Enough for it to stay a pleasant, alcohol induced dream. If he opened his eyes it would be real, and it would have to stop. And John did not want it to stop.

“John,” Arthur murmured, his voice just above a whisper now. “Open your eyes.” The timbre of it was deep, so much deeper than John had heard it before. How could he have possibly known? How could he know John so well in so little time? So completely? The moan John was holding on to finally slipped past his lips when Arthurs grip on his waist tightened, ever so slightly. “John,” Arthur choked. 

“I can’t,” John whispered as Arthur’s fingers moved from his hips, leaving a burning heat behind in the shape of Arthur’s palm. They trailed up and up, tugging at the buttons of John’s shirt as they went, making his breath hitch. Up to his open collar, nails dragging across John’s collar bone and hollow of his throat. Until they wrapped ever so gently around his neck, the thumb coming up to guide John’s jaw this way and that. John was breathing hard, now.

“Why?” Arthur asked, pressing himself closer, still, to John. John whined.

“I…” I want to. God, I want to. Make me. “Please, Arthur, don’t make me. Please, just–”

John gasped when he felt Arthur’s teeth scrape lightly over the skin of his neck, his hand flying up to grip Arthur’s hair, his shoulder, something. To hold Arthur. But he was stopped by a strong grip on his wrist, which guided his hand back down to the edge of the sink, holding it there. Pinning it. 

“John,” Arthur whispered. John’s chest was rising and falling like Akke’s after a long sprint, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s. Arthur’s thumb caressed his knuckles, white with the strength of his grip on the sink.

“Please,” they said at the same time. John’s brow furrowed, his lips hung parted in anticipation. His mind swung wildly from the present, between Arthur and the mirror with a hand around his throat, to the cabin, pressing Arthur to the wooden floor, pinning his wrists above his head. The burning momentum between them suddenly halted by John’s fear, like a landslide on the track before a train. Now the train was out of control again, brakes screeching against wheels that just wouldn’t stop, sparks flying. Sparks like fireworks. Sparks like live wires. Sparks like exploding gunpowder.

But then the warmth at his back was gone. Along with it the hand at his throat and the one  pinning his own to the sink. The teeth at the junction of his neck and shoulder and the hot breath on his skin vanished, leaving only a stark coldness where they’d been before. John sighed, whether in relief or disappointment he didn’t know, and opened his eyes.

The flush on his face had migrated down his neck and chest, which was exposed now (when had Arthur done that?) and heaving. The ‘light sheen’ of sweat was beading at his temples and brow now, falling in drops down to his jaw, along the bridge of his nose. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide and his neck was bare. 

And Arthur, leaning drunkenly against the wall behind him, arms crossed, expression chilly. He was breathing heavily too, and his face was red like the first hints of daylight in the sky. But it was the hard set of his mouth and brow that made John shiver.

“We should go to bed, John,” he said, voice still raspy. A needy, sad little sound rose from John’s throat then, and John’s hand flew to his mouth, as if to force the offending sound back in. Arthur swallowed and turned, ready to head back to one of the twin beds awaiting them. Side by side and yet still miles apart. “And don’t worry.”

“It’ll all feel like a dream, tomorrow.”

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Large, reasonably priced 1972 mid-century modern in Kokomo, Indiana. 4bds, 5ba, and it's original with loads of character. In this home, you have no choice but to embrace the funky, especially if you blow all your money on the mortgage. $299,900. There's a lot for the money here.

Double doors open to a stone wall w/a door and an open area to the right. Note the colorful brick pattern in the floor. Sort of looks like birds wearing bras.

If you should choose to go to the right, you will enter this gigantic living room (living/dining combo? Great room?). The carpeting is clean and in great condition.

Details of the fireplace with an asymmetrical design.

And, off to the side, enter the kitchen. Another large room with a double decker island. This home has been very well cared for and preserved.

Definitely an eat-in kitchen. Not only is the island large enough to sit at, but you can see the dinette space at the far end.

Back to the main hall, we go left to the other side of the house.

I don't know what this is. That window throws me off. Is it a dining room w/a kitchen service window? Must be.

These rooms sure are big. This must be the principal bedroom with huge closets and a terrace.

Plus, it has a walk-in cedar closet.

This original bath has a cool orange sink.

Yeah, that's got to be the dining room. Although I don't understand the layout. Note the original door bell chimes.

Here's another large room. It has built-in shelves.

This one has a built-in shelf, too. Looks like there may be an intercom on the wall next to the door.

This bath has a nice pink laminate counter and floral sinks. Everything is so perfect. Not a stain in sight.

Another cedar closet.

Gigantic ground floor level has a ballroom sized rec room.

Plus, a full sized kitchen with original appliances. Love the blue laminate and blue glass cabinet doors.

This is so cool- a big indoor pool with 2 slides and a diving board.

Oh, look, they left a pool table, cues and balls. Nice.

Will you select door #1, #2, or #3?

Utility room- that looks like a central vac unit on the right.

Huge garage with cabinets. Did they leave that John Deere tractor? No wonder this home has a pending sale, it's cool as hell.

.97 acre lot and it has a river on the property.

[heian-era-housewife]

Synopsis | You just want to be "normal". Is that too much to ask? A trip to Walmart with Sukuna may be just what you need to remind you that being normal is overrated.

Content | g/n!reader x true form sukuna, fluff, crack, agoraphobia, social phobia, mention of self loathing, mental health *or lack thereof*

A/N | If you're new here, Hi! I'm Yuri and I live with agoraphobia. Fittingly, the roots of this word are "market place" and "fear", but really it is a social phobia based around leaving one's house or being in public/crowded places. As with any mental health issue, it takes many forms.

Anyway, this is an oddly specific and very much self indulgent drabble based on pretty much every experience I've ever had with Walmart. Including today.

Hope you enjoy!

"I still don't understand why you're making me do this." Sukuna said, head leaning on the glass of the passenger-side window of your car where he sat, all four arms crossed in visible annoyance.

"We need groceries 'Kuna." You remind him. "And please put your seatbelt back on."

He rolled his eyes with a scowl. Pulling enough slack from the belt to stretch across his broad chest, he struggled for several seconds to find the buckle hiding under his beefy thigh. 

"This is stupid. I told you Uraume can go to the market for us."

"And I told you that I wanted to try being a normal human being for once." You retort.

"Hmph." He pouted. "I fail to see how a- what did you call it?"

"A 'Walmart Run'?"

"I fail to see how a run to 'Walmart' makes one a 'normal human'." 

"'Kuna, you know how bad my anxiety is. I love that Uraume does so much for us, but I'm afraid if I never step out of my box again, I'll regress and turn into some sort of shut-in. I just want to be normal. I want to be like everyone else. Y'know?"

In place of an answer, he gestured sarcastically to his own mutated form. His four eyes blinking in stone-cold irony.

"Okay, okay." You conceded. "You know what I mean."

It had been a while since you'd gone anywhere. Your needs were always provided for in Sukuna's estate, and whatever he didn't have, he sent Uraume to get. As an agoraphobe, this life suited you perfectly. But there was still a piece of you that craved that social ingredient that made you feel less broken, even if it did fill you with dread. 

The trip started out okay. You grabbed a cart and skirted the outer aisles, avoiding the ones where employees were stocking shelves or people bustled about for more popular items. 

As time went on, however, your chest grew tighter, the sounds grew louder, and your personal bubble was at risk of popping.

Suddenly, the simple act of reaching for milk became a tunnel-vision inducing nightmare of shifting carts and bumping elbows all to the backdrop of a small child wailing somewhere nearby. 

You were frozen. Caught in the mayhem. Were you holding your breath or hyperventilating? You didn't even know. Why were you so bad at this? How did this come so easy to other people? And what were you even trying to grab? Was it milk? It must have been milk? Or maybe it was something else and if it was milk was it 2% or maybe whole and why was that child still screaming can't someone do something about that? wasn't anyone else feeling nauseated? and when did it get so hot were the aisles always this narrow?OhGodWhyDidIComeHereAtAll? thiswasaterribleidea?¿?¿? jfhjfs#$&*

Sukuna reached over you, grabbing the milk and throwing it in the cart before swooping his arms around your shoulders and waist, guiding you toward the front of the store.

"Come on, kid." He said in a low grumble. "I think you've had enough. Let's get out of here."

Numb legs carry you forward as you trudge your way toward the self-checkout. You stare blankly in a dissociative state while Sukuna scans the groceries by himself, large hands and fingers fumbling through the prompts on the small touch screen.

Useless. You're so useless. You think to yourself. Can't you do anything? Why are you so weird? So...broken?

"I'm so...weak..." You mumble feebly.

"Come again?" Sukuna grunts with his broad back to you, shoving crumpled bills unsuccessfully into the beeping machine.

"I said you must think I'm so weak." You say, louder this time, bitter tears forming on the rim of your lashes.

"Don't be foolish!" He says. "Of course I think you're weak! You're the weakest human I know!"

You look at him wide-eyed, momentarily pulled from your self-loathing by the shock of his admission. 

"Look at you!" He says, turning around to face you. "You can't even go to the grocery store without having a problem for, God's sake. This is exactly why you need me!"

His words fell heavy on your shoulders. Weighing you down. Making you small. Sure, nothing he said was untrue. But to hear it out loud-

"But you're also the kindest human I know." He continued softly. "You feel more deeply. You never stop trying. You're strong where it counts. You taught me love. You take me to ridiculous places. So yeah. Sure. You're scared of things that don't bother 'normal people'. But where the rest of the world looks upon the King of Curses with nothing but fear and loathing, you look upon me with love and compassion, never once bothered that I wasn't a 'normal person'." 

The tears began to flow. Sukuna took your face in his hands, calloused thumbs gently rubbing them from your cheeks. "And that- that is why I need you." 

A chorus of soft "awwws" came from the other nearby shoppers who had gathered to hear the disfigured man's booming monologue. Cottontop grandmas dabbed at their eyes, while the balding clerk overseeing self-checkout stood from his three-legged stool with a slow, appreciative clap. 

Sukuna's face fell flat with an unamused sigh. "Now can we get out of Walmart before I feel the need to burn the place down?"

That got you to smile. "Sure thing, King."

Bonus Track

On the way back to the car, Sukuna had some Thoughts™️ to share about his first ever trip to Walmart:

-So that was it, huh? I can see why you wouldn't like going there.

-I'd never want to leave my house either if I had to acquire sustenance from a place like that.

-And did you see some of the freaks??

-No, really! You think I'm bad? You could fill the entire internet with the amount of WEIRDOS I saw in there.

-Trust me, there was not one "normal human" in there.

-And why do we call it a "Walmart Run"? The only running I wanted to do was to get out of there.

-Oh! Is that why?

-Heck, you know what, Imma burn it down.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Hiiii, wondering if we can get a Tom Bennett one shot of him sneaking into my room and taking my body down to pound down while my parents who hate him are next door sleeping

Warnings: Smut. Word count: ~1300

She settles beneath the duvet, her body relaxing into the softness of the mattress and pillows when she hears it.

Tap.

Her eyes flit to the window where the sound has come from, but after a few seconds pass in silence she rolls over, closing her eyes and preparing to sleep.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The light dinging against the glass pane is unmistakable. She huffs, throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed. She cannot help the smile that tugs at her lips at the sight in the street below.

Tom Bennett.

He stands on the pavement, head tilted up towards her bedroom, a lit cigarette perched between his lips.

She lifts the window from the bottom by its wooden frame, pushing it upwards to open it. Her heart is hammering so wildly in her chest that she is certain Tom must be able to hear it from where he’s stood.

His forefingers pull the cigarette from his mouth as he exhales billowing smoke, his trademark smirk lighting up his handsome features. “Finally. Was running out of stones to throw.” He teases. “Thought you were gonna leave me to stand out here all night like a drip.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ll have to put that out before you come up.” She says. “And be quiet.”

He nods, throwing the butt towards the ground and crushing it underfoot, before he begins his ascent up the drainpipe of the small terraced house. He climbs in through the window, sliding it closed behind him and turning to face her.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He states quietly, eyes roving up and down her nightdress clad figure.

She fidgets awkwardly with the hem, avoiding his gaze. “I haven’t, Tommy, it’s just…”

“Your Mum and Dad are on to us, aren’t they?”

She sighs, finally looking up at him. “Dad’s been asking questions, wants to know where I keep going. Mum smells your fag smoke on my clothes when she does the washing.”

He nods, mischief sparkling in his blue eyes. “We’ll just have to be more careful then.”

She bites back a laugh. “I hardly think you climbing into my bedroom window is being careful, Tom.”

“Needed to see ya, didn’t I? Been thinking about my best girl.”

“Mum and Dad are asleep next door, they’ll hear- oh!”

Her sentence is cut off as Tom captures her lips with his own in a heated kiss. His hand slips beneath her nightdress to palm at her cotton covered centre.

“I can feel you soaking through your knickers already and I’ve hardly touched you.” He grins, as they break the kiss. “Lay on the bed for me.”

She wants to protest, knows she should tell him to leave, because they’ll get caught. However, the power that he has over her is simply too great, she can’t deny him anything. Her actions are led by the throbbing ache in her core, and so she lays back just as he’s instructed.

Tom shrugs out of his jacket, then makes quick work of tugging her nightdress over head and dragging her underwear down her legs. He grabs her knees, prying her legs apart, drawing in a shuddering breath as he takes in the sight of the slick between them.

This is too risky. She is breathing too heavily. Christ, when did she start breathing so loudly?! Her parents are surely going to hear them, and yet she can’t find it in herself to stop him, especially not when she hears the metallic clink of his belt opening.

“Not gonna be all soft and gentle how I know you like it normally.” He whispers, as he leans over her, caging her in with his forearms. He hasn’t even bothered to undress fully, just unfastened his belt and pulled his trousers down enough to free his cock. “You’ve made me wait too long, darlin’.”

She gasps as she feels the head of him tease through her folds, her hands fisting the sheets in anticipation of what’s to come next.

“Shhh.” He coos. “Don’t want mummy and daddy to catch their little girl copping the shagging of her life, do we?”

She clamps her hand over her mouth to stifle her mewl as he pushes inside. He is met with resistance, he always is, no matter how much he prepares her, every time feels like she’s being split open.

“So fuckin’ tight.” He grits out into the crook of her neck, barely giving her a chance to adjust before he begins pistoning his hips against hers.

The motion is making the metal frame of her bed squeak loudly. She doesn’t want him to stop, not ever, yet she knows the sound will awaken her parents - the walls in their little council house are paper thin.

“T-Tommy.” She stammers into his ear. “You’ve gotta slow down, or you’ll wake them up.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He murmurs, lifting her up.

He staggers slightly, his trousers falling around his ankles, and they both giggle before shushing each other, as he walks her back towards the wall beside the window, pressing her against it.

Instinctively, she wraps her legs around his waist and he resumes his brutal thrusting into her, the renewed angle causing her toes to curl with every brush against the spongy spot deep inside of her.

She drapes her arms around his neck, muffling her soft moans and whimpers into his shoulder. With every strike of his hips she feels herself being nudged closer to the edge, his hot pants against her ear spurring her on.

“I’m close…” She whines.

“I know, darlin’.” He breathes out. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

She nods fervently. “Tommy, please!” She is unsure of what she is even begging for, she just knows she doesn’t want him to stop, the coil in her lower belly has grown painfully tight.

“You can come if you wanna, know you can’t help it.” He says, his voice low, yet the smugness is unmistakable.

She hates him for that, hates that he knows exactly what he does to her, hates that he is right. The coil finally snaps and she tightens and spasms around him, slapping her hand over mouth to force back the cry of his name that escapes her lips.

Mere moments later, he is pulling out, aiming white hot ropes of sticky spend across her thighs and belly as he releases with a muffled grunt.

He lowers her slowly to the floor, keeping an arm wrapped around her waist to support her shaky legs. He strokes her hair, peppering gentle kisses across her cheeks until their breathing slows.

She watches as he moves away to grab her discarded nightdress and underwear. He hands her the nightie, and as she pulls it back over her head she feels him using her knickers to wipe at the mess he’s made of her. She smiles at the softness of the gesture, a stark contrast to how roughly he has just taken her.

He pulls his trousers back up, fastening his belt and then slipping his jacket back on. Her heart twinges at the thought of letting him go. She wishes he could stay the night, but her dad wakes up so early to do the milk rounds that there’s no way they wouldn’t get caught.

Her eyes widen as she sees him slipping her used underwear into his jacket pocket.

“Tommy!” She hisses. “Mum is gonna start wondering where all my knickers are going!”

He grins wolfishly. “She counting them now, is she?”

Her cheeks burn with shame, though she cannot hide her smile. “It’s not the first pair you’ve taken.”

“Won’t be the last either.” He says with a wink, as he opens the window and climbs back out.

[kpforpresident]

Good Vibrations AU

Lexa is staring particularly hard at the one penis-shaped water stain in the damp ceiling, trying her absolute hardest not to eavesdrop on the couple that was standing a stone’s throw away, arguing hotly next to a hot pink, two-foot-long dildo that Lexa would hazard a guess at being at least as large around as her forearm. The girl, a tiny petite thing with platinum blonde hair fiddles with a bullet toy on the nearby display while the boy, a walking embodiment of a mountain dew and Cheetos gamer, gestures emphatically at the monstrous toy that dangles by the girl’s shoulder. Lexa can practically feel the toy staring at her with its bulbous head, the massive silicone ball silhouette gleaming softly in the dull fluorescent lighting. 

“Babe, I’m just saying, I think it would fit…”

Lexa bites back a shudder as she fastidiously scrubs away an invisible speck away from the display case that houses a frankly staggering array of lubes, both flavored and plain. 

One more year and I will have enough to pay outright for my master’s degree loans, and I never have to step foot in here again, Lexa finds herself thinking with the fervent hope of a thousand suns as she stares unseeing at a strawberry lube bottle that boasts an eye-wateringly bright green label that promises a “Sweet, Slippery Good Time!” 

“You have no issue with my dick, this isn’t that much bigger-” 

Lexa, fighting every demon known not to let out a cackle at the exasperated look on the blonde girl’s face, ducks her head to chew on her lip before moving from the safety of behind her glass and metal counter. Walking purposefully by the duo, she innocently straightens a lacy thigh-high garter that sits proudly in the slightly-frosted windows, just opaque enough to squeak by the city’s stringent guidelines but transparent enough to barely hint at what lay behind the metallic doors of Good Vibrations, Polis’s self-proclaimed best and largest sex shop. 

Kane, the town’s local eccentric but entirely affable billionaire had opened the shop three years ago must to the abject horror of the local evangelical group, led by the most fervent of the bunch, Charles Pike. 

Kane staunchly maintained that the shop existed to promote sex positivity and awareness in a world increasingly fraught with misinformation or staggering layers of prudish beliefs on the topic of sex education. Seething with barely contained hostility, Pike and his acolytes were ordered to cease their weekly prayer circles outside of the front door as Kane managed to find the largest, glittery, rainbow flag with a bedazzled uterus on it and set it flying proudly outside of their front door. 

Much to everyone and no one’s surprise, Good Vibrations does a rip-roaring trade in sex toys and accessories, with customers ordering online from around the world, business pouring in after young and scrappy student journalist Lexa Woods wrote a piece about the story of the local business for a university writing course. She, of course, had expected it to go no further than the boundaries of the sleep little town of Polis, assuming that many students would read the piece and make a note of the store as a place to stagger into when their sweet new girlfriend texted them that yes, they did really want to use the fluffy pink handcuffs, or no, of course, the vibrator wasn’t necessary and her boyfriend always made her O but the girl just figured it would be fun to try the Satisfyer Pro 2. You know, for science. 

Kane had laughed uproariously and framed it when the New York Times picked it up as an opinion lifestyle piece, hanging it just inside the front door with pride. He then offered young Lexa a job. Desperate to fund her dreams of global journalism and international affairs studies, she seizes the chance to work a flexible job with good pay and weekends off. 

Hence why she was currently furiously chewing her cheek again the onslaught of laughter bubbling up in her throat as Gamer Boy makes a show of jiggling the pink monstrosity of a toy near his own nether regions, minutely hip thrusting in the girl’s direction.

The girl rolls her eyes as she wanders away to examine some kinky position dice, leaving Lexa to contemplate the vast and confusing world of heterosexual encounters.

Her rumination on this topic is cut abruptly short by the cheery little chime of the shop’s front door, a high-pitched noise that automatically has Lexa pivoting away from the couple that is now arguing by a pair of furry, neon green garters, and towards the entrance. 

Only to be completely way-laid out by a wide-eyed blonde barreling towards her at high speed, brandishing something oblong and bright purple in her right fist. Completely nonplussed at this strange girl who was clearly on a mission, Lexa cocks her head and squints at the object in her fist, cursing the fact she forgot her glasses today. 

At least it’s not a weapon, Lexa finds herself thinking as bright blue eyes, sparking with indignation, are moving closer by the second. Hang on, is that—?

Skidding on the recently mopped hardwood in front of Lexa, courtesy of a curious frat boy and an exploded bottle of body glitter, Lexa has approximately 4 seconds to react as the girl slips, cartoon-like, feet flying out from underneath her as she fails to find traction on the glistening floor. 

Lexa, acting on autopilot, thrusts a hand forward to try and catch a flailing limb–

Thud. 

The girl hits the ground so hard the glass dildos rattle menacingly in their cases, Lexa’s teeth along with them. The girl peers up at Lexa dazedly, gaze sharpening and seeming to run the full gamut of human emotion before settling into horror. Both sets of eyes were now fixed on Lexa’s right hand, grasping the only thing she managed to find purchase as the blonde fell. 

A purple vibe fits snugly into her right hand, lights flashing at random as the toy gives a feeble bzzt of protest, seemingly in response to being manhandled in their owner’s fight with gravity. 

A strangled “What the fuck?” roughly 4 octaves higher than normal is all a startled Lexa can get out in response, a very gay part of her brain flashing loud rainbow lights as if to alert her that by some strange twist of fate, she has ended up being personally given this very pretty girl’s personal sex toy. Said toy vibrates feebly twice more before going dark and silent, as if satisfied that its death toll was in Lexa’s confused hand. 

The blond’s head hits the ground for a second time as she rolls her eyes back to face the ceiling, seemingly resigned to her fate. Then, as if animated by the gay sex gods, she pops up again to snatch the toy out of Lexa’s hand. 

“You-” Lexa can barely lean back in time as the purple toy sails within millimeters of her nose- “owe me an orgasm, Woods.”

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 22 Home Invaders

Warning: Breaking and entering, implied kidnapping, military politics and terrorism, Reader is female and is implied to be a famous writer

I don't know how to feel about this one, y'all. I like the idea, but I'm not sure about the pacing...

You’re curled up on the sofa, the tv playing some mindless soap opera as you type away at your script. Your publisher is breathing down your neck for new work, especially when your most recent book is already slatted for a possible movie adaptation. You already nixed the adaptation, having seen the rewrites that basically butcher the script you were willing to allow. The story needs to remain as pure as it could, going from the beginning to the end. Instead, their rewrites had become meandering, obviously trying to add drama that adds nothing to the story. Disappointing, but not surprising with how Hollywood does its dirty business.

A rustling in your garden catches your attention. You pause and listen, confused about what could have made that noise. There’s no feral cats in the area and you unfortunately lost your dog a few months ago. There are no woods nearby, so it’s unlikely to be a wild animal. However, you don’t hear anything else. You turn back to your laptop and return to work, deciding it must just be the wind.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on your door, startling you again. Slowly, you rise from the couch and pad quietly to the door, peering around the corner to peek outside through the window. A man is standing there, handsome, but unfamiliar. You slowly walk toward the door, hesitant, especially when the man sees you. Angular, is the first thing you think, shuffling over to the door. He gives you a smile that sets you on edge. Your husband is still deployed and you had planned to get another dog with him, leaving you relatively defenseless. Then you see his eyes.

“Oh shit,” you gasp, scrambling to the cellar. You hear glass break, but you don’t pause. John had told you what to do if any of his enemies find you.

“Listen, Love. If any one you don’t know tries to get you while I’m not home, barricade in the cellar. I’ll leave down a charged phone, a charger, and a few guns. Use those guns if any of those fuckers make it down. Call me on that phone, then call Kate, then the police. In that order. If I can’t make it home in time, Kate will dispatch someone to help you. The police are a formality,” he had told you, in his Captain tone. Right now, you’re sprinting through the house, hearing an accented voice yelling for you. You practically throw yourself down the stair, only taking a moment to lock the door behind you and slam down the wood beam to block the door.

“John,” you pant, scrambling to the phone. Your hands are shaking, a sob choking out as something slams against the door. You finally dial John’s number, and you pray someone will pick up.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Price is in the middle of trying to mediate between Graves, Kate, Shepard, and his boys when his emergency phone rings.

“And who the hell is that?” the General sneers as a stone drops in Price’s stomach. Ignoring the American’s shit talking, he pulls out the phone and his heart sinks. It’s the cellar phone, and you promised only to use it when someone broke into the house.

“Oh, an important phone call? Why don’t you share with the class?” Graves offers with a shit eating grin. Price doesn’t want to, but they’ve already made Grave answer his phone on speaker when a booty call tried to entice him back to her bed. Reluctantly, he answers the phone on speaker.

“John? John, are you there?” your voice sounds from the tinny speaker.

“Yes, Love, I’m here,” he assures you. Gaz and Soap look up while Ghost tenses, the only one to have met you, to know who you are.

“John,” you sob, “There’s someone here. They got in the house.” A faint banging sounds through the speaker and your yelp wipes the grins off Graves and Shepard’s faces. You choke back your sob and continue, “Th-There’s a man, he’s really angular, with- with an accent, an- and.”

“Mrs. Price,” a horrifyingly familiar voice is barely heard, “Be good and open the door.”

“Makarov,” Price snarls, “Sweetheart, hide in the gun--” There’s the sound of a door splintering open and you scream. Price reaches for the phone desperately as he hears you struggle against the bastard, baring his teeth in fury at the sound of skin meeting skin in a slap.

“Hello, Captain Price,” Makarov purrs into the receiver, “You have a very pretty wife. Not a good hostess, unfortunately. She left us at the door.”

“You don’t fucking touch her,” Price snarls, seeing Kate already pulling up her laptop and trying to put together a rescue mission.

“It’s too bad that she is incapacitated,” Makarov hums idly, letting them all hear you cry out before a solid thud and silence. The terrorist continues, “Of course, she’s also unimportant, right? What is a Captain’s wife worth, hm?”

“Let her go!!” Price roars, wishing he could be there to kill Makarov and get you away from the psychopath.

“You took my honor, my pride, and my freedom. I think taking your world is an equal exchange,” Makarov explains before hanging up. The silence in the meeting room is damningly silent, except for Kate’s fingers flying over the keyboard.

“She’s got the tracker on,” Kate declares, “And they’re on the move.”

“Keep me updated,” Price orders.

“You aren’t going after her,” Shepard argues, although it’s obvious that even the General is shaken. Price takes a breath before looking at the older man.

“She’s famous,” he explains impatiently, “Her name remained the same for her work, but she is my wife. You don’t think the civil population won’t be up in arms to find her?”

“Didn’t she just cancel a possible project with Hollywood?” Kate asks idly, not even looking up as both Shepard and Graves realizes just what that means. You are important enough to the civilian population that should word get out that they refused to help rescue you, their livelihoods are on the line.

“Keep us updated too,” Graves says, “I’ll start spreading my men out to make something of a net.”

“Thanks f’r that,” Ghost speaks up, rising from his seat, “I’ll start prepping f’r th’ mission.”

[bereft-of-frogs]

ugh I think I have another #Theory, this time to the solve to the 'how to kill a Jedi without a weapon' riddle, I truly must be stopped --

I think people are off-base assuming it's with the Force, because I feel like Mae would have already figured out choking/lightning or whatever, I believe the Force counts as a 'weapon', and clearly the poison was a weapon (see: Qimir after 'so you did it, you killed the Jedi without the poison) so I do think it's metaphorical rather than semantic. I believe the theories that it's about corrupting a Jedi to the dark side and 'destroying the dream' are closer than any 'it's because she's meant to do it with the Force/her bare hands' or 'it's about killing an unarmed Jedi' (though that second one has potential, why else is she grabbing for the lightsabers but leaving them after they're dead?). But another solution could be destroying the Jedi's legacy.

I think they're going to frame Sol as the rogue Jedi who trained Mae.

I have like, so little textual evidence for this. This is probably as out of thin air as the 'Vernestra/Indara is the Sith' theories so maybe I who live in a glass house shouldn't be throwing stones about how much I dislike those theories after proposing this one. But I'm really thinking that only Sol is going to make it out of the forest battle alive next episode, aside from Osha and the Sith crew, and there's going to be some kind of chase that leads them away. So Vernestra shows up on Khofar (the lightwhip scene in the trailer is almost certainly Khofar) to find the bodies killed with a lightsaber and everyone else gone.

I think they go off and unpack whatever happened the night of the fire on Brendok, there's all kinds of confrontations/fights/reveals/etc in episodes 6 & 8 (episode 7 is definitely the Jedi POV of the flashback) and the season's going to end with at least Sol dead (maybe Mae too) and Osha turning to the dark side to become the true acolyte. It was already set up last episode that the Order doesn't suspect the Sith, they're pretty convinced it's a 'rogue Jedi' who trained Mae, and Sol did some kind of shady stuff during that meeting. (Not including himself on the list of targets, keeping Mae and her survival a secret.) Even I sort of started to suspect him, but I think that's a red herring, just to set up why Vernestra might end up distrusting him. So Vern's feeling kind of weird about the secrets Sol's kept about Mae (because it's more than just 'he thought she died', Yord said even the existence of Mae didn't end up in Osha's file), but she still trusts him and there are innocent explanations for all this she writes off, so she sends him off with a bunch of other Jedi to go get Kelnacca. But now the whole crew she sent out is dead, clearly killed with a lightsaber (they know Osha doesn't have a lightsaber, and reasonably suspect Mae doesn't either considering Indara was killed with a knife, Torbin poison, and she left their lightsabers behind), and Sol's gone...I think it's fairly reasonable suspicion especially if later Osha turns up as the acolyte.

(There were a couple early things that seemed to deliberately set her physically apart from Mae, the marking on Mae's forehead and her tattoo. Why would they do that if the Jedi believed the identical twin thing right away? Why would they need some proof of their identities unless there's a second role reversal and they need some other way of telling it's Osha and not Mae?)

So yeah in this Sol -- ray of literal sunshine, good Jedi, kind person -- gets his legacy destroyed (one apprentice dead, because I'm pretty convinced Jecki doesn't live out the season, though I'll be happy to be wrong -- the other turned to the dark side) and his reputation tarnished by accusations of being a rogue Jedi training dark side assassins. There you go, you've killed a Jedi without a weapon.

And I feel like this would fit the kind of meta narrative they've got going on, as sort of a mirror of what happened to the Order as a whole at the end of the PT, heroes transformed into traitors.

I have no additional evidence for this. My theories are not spiraling at all. I love weekly releases and am being very very normal about having to wait between episodes. :) so normal *vibrates intensely*

[smok3r7]

Is Leaving Even An Option?

Joel x F!reader

Explicit, 18+

Two: Too Late

Series MasterList & Main MasterList - My Ao3

Summary: Your days have become one in the same, even with the terrifying reality of death right outside the walls of Jackson. You never thought you’d be in the situation you’ve been stuck in for seven years now, the daily abuse you endure has become an expectation. You take whatever your husband throws at you, literally and figuratively, because you’ve been trained to believe this is normal. But a new man, Joel, moves next door and happens to be friendly towards you, this causes your husband’s anger to worsen. Your mind starts a gruesome war with itself - can you leave him or do you stay until the inevitable happens?

Chapter Summary: Your daily life of tragedy somehow takes an even worse turn. After losing, yet again, your child, but this time by the hands of your own husband, you start to crack. You try to open up to Maria, but it doesn’t go as planned and now you are completely stuck on what to do.

Word count: 3.6k

⚠️Warnings: EXTREME verbal and physical abuse, miscarriage from abuse, strangulation until passing out, slapping, name calling, fat shaming, anxiety, gut punch, throwing glass at reader, forgiving husband over and over

—

“This house is such a mess, do you just sit on your lazy ass while I’m out on patrol, risking my life for you?” Nate’s voice echoes from upstairs off of the emerald green colored walls of your home.

You’re sitting on the plush black couch in the living room listening to your record player play “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding as you continue to put little puzzle pieces together on the dark wood table in front of you, immune to his vile words.

You hear the stomping of his boot covered feet in the room above you. He came home from a patrol meeting mad about something Maria had said, but again, when isn’t he? No matter what you do or say, Nate is never satisfied with you and it has become the norm. You spend all day cleaning the house until it is sparkling clean, even the high windows you have, that you can’t reach without a ladder, get cleaned and Nate still complains about seeing dust along the window sill - which was never even there.

Your body turns to stone when you hear the fast creaking of the stairs caused by Nate’s brutally quick steps. The small puzzle piece you have in between your index and thumb falls from them, your lungs stop mid breath, and your eyes start to blink constantly so the tears that are coating your eyes don’t stream down your cold face. Your body can turn on and off as it pleases, this has become your new routine, every single day.

To your right, you hear the scoff and you knew it was coming. “Still just sitting on your fat ass. Wow.” He enunciates the wow and the sound of the hardwood floor notifies you that he’s now getting closer to you, and you’re still in the same position when he comes down, too scared to move or open your mouth, because the tiniest sign of resistance can cause this whole thing to blow up. You’re hoping he’ll stop his nonsense when he notices the pink positive pregnancy test on top of the sonogram that shows a two and a half month fetus, laying on the glass table in front of you.

“Are you fucking stupid or-“ Nate’s loud voice stops mid sentence, he must see the sonogram. Your forehead has sweat beaded all over, your fingers are picking at one another in your lap, your stomach has this acidic sensation that makes you feel queasy. “This is yours?” He questions with a confused expression as you turn to watch his tattooed muscular arm reach for the items. You nod slowly and gaze into his ocean blue eyes that you adore so much. For the first time in five years, you see Nate’s eyes truly filled with love but, as fast as that feeling washed over him, it’s gone. You see the light drain from his face and get replaced with rage - oh god.

“Who have you been fucking?” He barks as he back hands your face, and you had no time to brace yourself, so the forcefulness of him made you fall onto the white shag rug in between the glass table and the couch. A mixture of what? No one and only you spew out of your lips, now bleeding from his strike. As you land on your back, you’re trying to crawl away from his towering body, but before you can get away he’s sitting all his weight on your stomach and his large hands wrap around your throat. You’re staring right into his baby blues with pure panic, your hands starting to claw at him around your neck to try to make him stop.

“It’s Brad isn’t it? You fucking whore!” Nate spits in your face as his grip tightens, causing your eyes to bulge from their sockets a bit.

All four of your limbs are flailing and hitting the wood floor as you’re trying to get him off of your tummy at least. He has his full body weight pushing on your and his precious baby and there’s nothing you can do about it. You feel absolutely hopeless, like the world is falling apart at the seams.

“Ain’t had sex in almost two months! But I see how you and Brad talk to each other, you’re such a slut!” He continues to spit, fully convinced of himself, even though he’s lying.

The look on his blonde bearded face is pure hatred, his thick brows furrowed together creating the lines to deepen, lips rambling away in a scowl. You believe that he would kill you and have zero remorse about it - but somehow, you still love him. The last thing you remember looking at is Nate’s beautiful baby blue eyes staring daggers into yours before everything fades into black.

—

“So what happened?” Tommy whispers not knowing you’re awake but just loud enough for you to hear as you watch them from afar.

“I don’t even know man!” Nate’s answers in an emotional tone, “I had gotten home from the meeting and she was doing her puzzle in the living room. I went up to shower and when I got dressed I heard a bunch of commotion downstairs.” He takes a breather like he’s overwhelmed by the answer, and Tommy tells him to take his time, tapping him on the shoulder to comfort him.

“As I walk into the living room, I see this guy sitting on her, so I yell and the guy gets spooked and runs through the house and out the back door.” Nate cries and forcefully puts his hand on the wall next to your bedroom door.

You can’t fucking believe him. You hate that he is such a good liar, it’s disgusting how good he is. He has perfected it since he snatched you up and you should have noticed the red flags before it got to this point. You’ve become so pathetic, letting him just walk all over your soul with no respect for you, and you have no life since he’s isolated you - you only exist for Nate’s needs and wants.

But you ignored how he treated you like a possession, never let you go by yourself anywhere, and if you did, he would question you about everything, making you quit your job at the stables because he didn’t want you to have to work. Slowly, the name calling started - you were always a whore, a slut, a cunt, dumbass, and his personal favorite “A hole for me to fill.” Then the slapping, punching, hair pulling, and choking against the wall became part of the daily routine.

What pulls you back in are the apologies, where he is on his knees crying and pleading with you to forgive him. “I’m so sorry sweetheart, I’ll never do that again, you don’t deserve that, please give me another chance, you are my moon and stars.” Nate has such a beautiful voice, smile, and he’s really charming. You really do believe him. However, it’ll be fine for a day or two, and then it’ll be right back to him hurting you. It’s been a vicious cycle you’ve lived the last five years.

You come back to the realization of where you are and why, your hands instinctively going over your swollen stomach, expecting to still feel that little creature growing in you, but there’s nothing. That mini you is now no more and your mind breaks - it was your body’s last straw. The most earth-shattering scream escapes your body, not caring about anything but your baby. “Not my baby!” You repeat with wails of salty tears soaking your cheeks as you sit up and wrap your sleeve covered arms around your bottomless belly, just shaking.

Nate and Tommy spin their heads as your husband jumps towards you and Tommy disappears into the hallway. “Not my baby!” Still sobbing but for another, for Rosa - you have been stripped of both of your children through death. The feeling of utter despair and rage starts to fight inside of you, is it his fault or is it yours?

The touch of Nate’s hand gently rubbing your face makes you spring your eyes open and look at him. You want to fight him off so bad, the urge to claw at his face and to scream that this is all his fault is boiling inside your chest. But the way his hand is caressing your cherry-red cheeks and his face is in disarray, his blonde hair looks like he’s been running his hands through constantly, his soul-snatching eyes now bloodshot, and his lips a soft red from biting his lips. It all together makes you swoon over him like a teenage girl again, you love him, which is why you won’t leave him.

“My love,” he whispers softly as he brings his lips to your forehead and places a gentle kiss, which makes you cry all over again.

“My baby…” you choke out once more before Nate lays down in the bed you two share, next to you and just holds you as you weep into his chest.

You love being held by him, the feeling of security and love flowing through your body when he holds you like a koala. His strong arms wrap around your torso, his thick legs latch around yours, and you take in the smell of his sweat and subtle scent of deodorant, smiling from the familiarity of him. However, an uneasy feeling grows in your guts, your mind racing about what to do because you now know what your husband is capable of doing to his wife; he killed his baby because he thought it wasn’t his.

This should make you leave and want absolutely nothing to do with him ever again, but it’s not that simple. You are dependent on Nate for everything, you don’t have anything of your own, and you can’t just start fresh. It seems impossible without him, and the fact you live in Jackson means that you will end up seeing him everywhere. So the urge to just stay married and deal with whatever comes your way is a lot easier than the ladder, and that’s what you have to choose.

You’re in too deep to just leave, and now with the amount of emotional turmoil there is between the two of you, it will create a new level of mind games.

—

“Hi honey, how are things?” Maria coos as you stand up to receive her hug.

“I’m doing well, thank you. How are you?”

Maria planned a lunch date, it's been one year since your miscarriage, and she didn’t want you to be alone since Nate and Tommy have been gone on patrol for a month. It’s been the most relaxing month you’ve had in years, and it’s very rare that they’re gone this long, two and a half weeks at most. You’ve been able to enjoy the pleasure of your own home, and didn't have to tiptoe around the house just to use the bathroom.

However, this last week has been emotionally exhausting because you have dealt with this looming anniversary alone, and times like these are when you miss Nate the most, because he would hold you, no matter what happened that day, and he would comfort you at night. You’re not sure if that’s a guilt thing for him since he killed his own baby, but you don’t really care why he does it, it’s just the fact that he does.

You haven’t slept much this last week - you’ve tried everything from warm baths to herbal remedies you made from your own garden you started a few years back, in the yard. Your mind just roams in circles about your whole life, about before and your beloved Rosa, then your marriage to Nate, which is at the end of the day, not a marriage, and finally your miscarriage.

It’s been a constant struggle to keep yourself occupied from your own brain, but thankfully Maria and a couple other girls check up on you when they can. They bring baked goods or full meals for you, and sometimes they’ll just sit with you, which you’re thankful for.

“No word on the boys yet,” Maria blurts as she opens the menu that reads Kenny's Burgers - one of the only restaurants in Jackson, packed with customers all the time. “Thank god,” you say louder than you meant, and Maria’s face grows confused. Shit, you think to yourself, why did you have to say that?

“Umm, what?” She asks as she folds the menu back up and sets it on the white round table between the two of you. You bite your bottom lip, do you tell her or lie?

“I meant- like, I- “ you are scrambling for anything to explain yourself but you can’t seem to grasp any ideas. You feel like if you tell the truth, Nate will come out of nowhere and attack you worse than ever. The buzzing of the people at tables around you has started to bother you, your breathing is becoming erratic. You’re sweating heavily, hands fidgeting with each other on the table, before Maria’s hands lightly grab them and she tells you to look at her. Embarrassed at yourself, you slowly pick your head up and gaze at her face, avoiding eye contact with her, afraid you’ll break down right here and now.

“Honey, what is going on with you?” She questions with a defeated sigh. You know she hates seeing the mighty woman you once were, turned into a frail shell of the woman she used to be.

It’s on the tip of your tongue, and you desperately want to spill everything that Nate has done to you, but like some kind of fucked up joke. Your eyes gaze past Maria and you see Nate walking towards you, and he has the smug face he does when he knows you’re thrown off by his actions.Taking in his appearance in utter horror, you notice his brown carhartt jacket and black jeans are drenched in dried blood, and he has a patch of gauze with blood soaking through taped to his neck - he looks like absolute hell.

Maria turns around to see what you’re terrified of, and when she finds Nate walking closer, she puts two and two together in her head.

“Tommy?” She asks from her chair with a sudden change in her tone.

“Putting the horses away, he let me go early to come see my girl today,” he smoothly coos, waiting for you to stand up for him. And without a second thought, you do just that. Hi baby, you hum into his chest. As scared as you just were seeing him again with no warning, that feeling is quickly washed away in a tidal wave created by his familiar smell and touch.

You open your eyes and are met with Maria’s, her face is plastered with an oh, my poor girl kind of look, you smile softly to her as if to tell her, it’s okay. She gives an unconvincing nod as she excuses herself to go see Tommy, and you and Nate give her a quick wave goodbye as she turns her back and walks towards the stables. Now that swallowing feeling of the unknown is jumping in your chest, and you don’t know what to expect from him.

“Let’s go home.” Nate demands as he slides his hand around the curve of your hip, and without any reluctance, you walk side by side with him all the way to the beautiful farm house where you live - the one that doesn’t feel like home.

—

“What happened to your neck?” You hesitate to ask as you close the front door behind your uneasy body, kicking off your boots. You hear him scoff as he walks over and grabs a small glass from the cabinet above the liquor and grabs a bottle of whiskey, pours the glass half full with the brown liquid, and sighs as he slides his blood-soaked coat off of his shoulders and hangs it up on the coat rack next to him.

You’re now to the right of him, about ten feet, hesitantly sitting on the couch, the very seat where he attacked you and your baby. You have a new puzzle on the clear glass table - it’s your safe hobby, the peace your soul receives from figuring out difficult puzzles is incredibly satisfying and comforting. Silence fills the room and without Nate even saying anything, you can feel the tension in the air switch like Jekyll & Hyde.

The way he takes the swig of whiskey and slams the glass back onto the granite countertop, almost shattering the glass, causes your body to jump from the sound. He fills the glass another time and repeats the aggressive action, your mind thinking of different ways to change the atmosphere at least a little bit. But consider the fact that you can’t even ask a simple question anymore, you might as well just be a rag doll for him. But who are you kidding? You already are.

All of a sudden, you notice his hand holding the empty glass in a different position. No way, you think, but before you know it, he’s turning his body to face you, winds back his arm and chucks the glistening glass at you. You duck your head between your thighs and scream as you hear the sound of shards scattering throughout your living room as it hits the wall behind you.

“What did you tell her?” Nate grits through his teeth, and you pick your head up and stare at him. He is boiling with rage, his ears and chest are red like a tomato and his chest heaving. You’re honestly shocked he hasn’t put his hands on you yet.

“Dumbass, what did you tell her?” Echoes in the living room. “Nothing!” You yell back, standing up to him for the first time in years. He doesn’t like that, now standing right in front of you, staring down at you, waiting for you to back down. It doesn’t come, you’ve had enough, and you’re not gonna allow him to do this to you anymore.

“Really?” His demeanor changes after he questions you, and if he doesn’t like your answer, he will hit you.

“Told her nothing. But maybe I should.” You snarl back with a slight smirk on your face. You’ve loved when you could throw him off his pedestal just a little bit, even with some of the repercussions that come afterwards. But now, after making up your mind, you have become confident in yourself - not as much as before, but it’s a start.

You don’t even see him wind his hand back, but all of a sudden an overbearing pain shoots into your gut. Your body folds in on itself, chest heaving for air of any kind to grasp onto, and your eyes dart to the cause of this excruciating pain. Your mind is blown when you see Nate’s left hand with his black wedding band. Your lungs have no air for a minute as you gasp over and over, your back on the floor, the same exact spot.

“Good luck leaving, whore,” he spits and walks away from your convulsing body on the living room floor. The creaking of the floorboards on the steps ring through your ears, followed by the slamming of the bedroom door, and then, silence.

You’re curled up into a ball on the same white shag rug, more or less for the same reason as before - Nate, your husband. The tears begin to pour out of your eyes, as do some wails, but they’re silenced by your sleeves covering your mouth. The pain in your stomach is unbearable, it has you rocking your body in little movements to try to make it go away - the feeling of death creeps into your peripheral but is quickly swept away.

“Good luck leaving, whore,” in his spiteful voice repeats throughout your thoughts. What did he mean by that? Can you leave? What did you get yourself into? Why didn’t you just shut up? Why can’t there be someone to help you? Your body and brain are going in loops between getting up and never looking back, and waiting till tomorrow to see what he does.

He just was gone for a month on patrol, and that’s why he’s stressed out, right?

Right?

[the-al-chemist]

Penny’s Special Day

A/N: Artemis in formalwear never goes smoothly. A delayed WBW instalment, based on this ask from @drinkyoursoupbitch:

The dress in the story was entirely inspired by the one in the photo above. As for choosing it, though…

Warnings: None.

A long time had passed since Artemis had last been to the Haywoods’ family home. The house was larger and brighter than the one she herself had grown up in, with a garden that stretched all the way around its walls, and a driveway on which a Muggle car was parked. The street outside the front gate was wide and tree-lined, and three children were riding bicycles up and down the length of it. There were rolling hills in the near-distance, so green and calm that it was hard to believe that London was only a stone’s throw away.

Everything about the house’s exterior was neat and polished in appearance, from the short grass to the paint on the front door. Artemis smoothed down her hair and clothes before knocking. A moment later, a figure appeared in the frosted glass of the door, which opened to reveal a young witch with butterscotch-blonde hair and legs that went up higher than Artemis’ waist.

“Long time, no see,” said the witch. She cocked an eyebrow and grinned mischeivously. “Are you emotionally ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Bea.”

“Then, by all means, come on in.”

Artemis followed Beatrice Haywood inside the house, moving quickly to keep up with her long strides.

“Everyone’s in the living room, we’ve all finished getting ready. Except for Penny, obviously, she’s still in her room making herself pretty,” Bea explained as she led Artemis through the hallway and up the stairs, the pale pink material of her dress swishing around her legs as she moved. “You can get ready in the spare bedroom, if you like, as long as you don’t mind sharing with all of Tonks and Chiara’s stuff.”

“Not at all.” Artemis was used to that, having shared a room with both Tonks and Chiara at school.

“It’s a bit of a sardines situation. I’ve had Aurélie in my room with me, and Skye and Lizzie are sharing the study.”

Artemis frowned. “There are a lot of us, aren’t there?”

“What were you expecting? This is Penny we’re talking about.”

“Let me guess, she couldn’t pick so asked everyone she knew?”

“A bit of that, but also she just wanted all of it, and it is Penny’s special day, after all.” Bea stopped in her tracks and widened her eyes. “Oh, but you must know that it is actually very lucky to have seven bridesmaids,” she said in a high-pitched and breathless voice, before snorting. “Honestly, I am just looking forward to tomorrow when this is all over. Anyway, you’re in here. Chuck your dress on and I’ll steal Andre off Penny to do your hair and make up for you.”

Bea nodded her head at a coat hanger floating in mid-air in the corner of the room, from which a padded material bag was hanging. Artemis took the bag from the coat hanger, lay it out on the bed, and opened it. Immediately, she pulled a face.

“Everything alright?”

Artemis wrinkled her nose at the dress. “It’s a bit pink, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about it.” Bea sighed. “But it’s what Penny wanted us all to wear.”

Managing to pull her eyes away from the sea of whitish-pink fabric on the bed, Artemis took another look at Beatrice. She was wearing the exact same colour, the exact same dress, as the one in front of her. Despite the colour, it looked quite nice on her. Maybe the dress wouldn’t look so bad once Artemis put it on.

Unfortunately, her first impression was proved to be correct once she stood in the mirror. Not only was the dress pink, but there was both an awful lot of it, and yet not enough. The skirt, which came down to her mid-shin, had layers of a mesh material beneath the main fabric that caused it to stick out slightly from Artemis’ waist like a ballerina. Though the bodice was tight, it did not have any sleeves to hold it up, and Artemis barely dared to move in case the entire dress slid down her body to the floor.

“I know Penny chose them, but—”

“Yes, you do have to wear it. We all do,” said Bea. “I wouldn’t have chosen it, either, but I’ve come around now.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You actually look alright in it, I just look like a meringue.” Artemis took a deep breath. “Hopefully Andre can do something to make it look better.”

But Andre’s response to the sight of Artemis in the dress did nothing to fill her with confidence.

“Oh, dear.” He grimaced as he looked her up and down. “Oh, no.”

“The dress is horrible, isn’t it?” said Artemis. To her surprise, Andre shook his head.

“The dress is lovely, Artemis. It just looks horrible on you.”

“Brilliant. Can you make it look good on me?”

Andre laughed. “Darling, I can do make up. I can do magic. I cannot work miracles.”

He conjured a chair out of mid-air and pushed the now-scowling Artemis down to sit in it in front of the mirror. Confronted with her own face, it was painfully obvious how tired she looked, with her skin the grey-ish yellow of someone quite unwell.

“That’s the colour of the fabric,” Andre informed her, when she pointed this out to him. “It does absolutely nothing for your skin tone. You look even more washed out than poor old Tonks, but I don’t think that had anything to do with her dress.”

Artemis did not reply. Tonks’ skin had been pale and her hair mousey all month, ever since her new not-quite-a-boyfriend had unceremoniously ended things with her, but Artemis didn’t want to be the one to pass on that piece of gossip - especially not if Penny hadn’t already done so. Andre was apparently non-plussed by Artemis’ reticence.

“Still, that’s what a good foundation and blush is for,” he carried on. “And it could be worse. At least you don’t have that tragic fringe anymore.” He sighed. “Honestly, darling, I’m surprised no one guessed it was all going tits up with Davies, what with that cry for help attached to your forehead...”

By the time Andre had finished with Artemis’ hair and make-up, she may have still resembled a meringue, but at least she no longer looked so sickly.

“And are you sure there’s nothing you can do to make the dress look better?” she asked Andre. “Maybe put some sleeves on it, or something?”

“Like I said, darling, the problem isn’t with the dress. And besides, this is what Penny wants, and it is Penny’s special day. Talking of which, the bride asked me to send you to her room once I was done. She has her own idea for a finishing touch for you.”

Artemis wasn’t sure she wanted any more input from Penny on her outfit, but she could hardly say no. She made her way across to Penny’s old bedroom, still decorated the way she remembered it from their teenage years, with gingham curtains and white broderie bedsheets and a small collection of toy horses on one of the bookshelves.

In the middle of it all was Penny herself, dressed in a white dress that skimmed over her body and pooled on the carpet. A silver tiara perched on top of her hair, which was intricately braided back from her face and fell down her back in waves of golden honey. Her eyes were bluer and her cheeks rosier than Artemis had ever seen them before.

“Wow,” said Artemis. “You look…”

She had been about to say ‘pretty’, but that wasn’t right. Penny had always been pretty, but today she looked more than just pretty. Today she looked…

“Beautiful. You look beautiful, Pen.”

Penny smiled, both genuinely and nervously. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

“And you definitely can’t tell at all?”

Penny looked down at her abdomen, the gentle bulge of which was hidden by the flowing material of the dress. She exhaled as Artemis shook her head, clearly relieved. Artemis stepped towards her.

“Andre said we needed to get our last something from you before we leave.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve had something made for each of you to wear today, and to keep after, if you wanted to. You don’t have to keep it, of course, but I wanted to give you each something. Here.”

Penny sat down on her old bed, and tapped the bedcover next to her. Artemis sat beside her, and Penny summoned a small satin pouch from her dressing table. She handed it to Artemis, who opened it and tipped its contents into the palm of her hand.

The item inside the pouch was a dainty silver bracelet, designed to look like a branch or vine with slim leaves made out of green jewels.

“I know it’s silver, but you can turn it gold after today is finished,” said Penny, as she looped the bracelet around Artemis’ wrist and fastened it. “And the gems are emeralds. I thought that they’d match the green in your eyes, and they’re your birthstone, you know? And the leaves, well… I asked the lady to make them look like rowan leaves. I hope you don’t mind.”

Artemis blinked and shook her head, almost rendered speechless.

“Of course I don’t mind,’ she managed to say. “I… I love it. Thank you, Penny.”

But Penny shook her head. “No, it’s to thank you, silly!”

“For what?”

“For being my bridesmaid, of course.”

“All I had to do was turn up and put on a dress.”

This seemed a bad point in time to mention how much she hated her dress, so Artemis did not mention it. Penny sighed.

“It’s more than that, though,” she said. “You’ve been one of my best friends for years. For half my life, would you believe it? And you still are, even now, even though we… Well, we are rather different, aren’t we?”

This was undeniably true. Artemis nodded. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

“I know that you don’t always understand me, and I know I definitely don’t always understand you, and that we both exasperate one another at times. It would have been easy for us to have grown apart once we left school, and I’m so glad that we haven’t.” Penny’s smile was still strong, but there were tears in her eyes. “I really do love you, you know.”

“I love you too, Pen,” said Artemis. As Penny hugged her, she heard her sniff, and could feel tears stinging her own eyes. “But don’t cry about it. You’ll ruin your make up and then Andre will kill us both.”

“Oh, goodness, you’re right.” Penny broke apart from Artemis and blinked rapidly. “There’s no time for it to be redone, either. We have to go. Would you mind helping with my train on the stairs?”

Artemis frowned as she looked around the room. “Train? What train?”

It turned out Penny was talking about the long material of her dress, which Artemis held up behind her as they made their way down the staircase of the Haywood’s house. In the hallway downstairs, Penny’s parents, sister, Andre, and the other five bridesmaids applauded at the sight of the bride descending the stairs to join them. Penny’s mother had tears in her eyes, there wasn’t even a hint of mockery in Beatrice’s smile, Chiara had a little colour in her usually pale cheeks, and Tonks had managed to inject a strawberry blonde hue into her mousey locks.

At the very bottom of the stairs, there was a narrow mirror, and Artemis caught a glimpse of her own reflection in her periphery as she passed it on her way to join the other bridesmaids, each wearing a slightly different variation of the bracelet Penny had just given her. She couldn’t say that she was any more enamoured with her dress, or that she looked any less like a meringue, but she could at least say that she looked like part of a team, a team that Penny had chosen herself based on years of friendship and fidelity, of shared experiences and shared laughter and shared love. It was a shame that Penny had chosen this dress for them all to wear, of course, but it was Penny’s choice, at the end of the day.

“It’s Penny’s special day,” Artemis muttered to herself, so quietly that no one else would hear her little reminder, before joining the rest of the bridal party to celebrate the happiness of her friend.

[spaghettioverdose]

the most incredible thing about "you like homestuck therefore you must be racist" thing is that apparently one of the people to start that is into fucking warhammer 40k???? like. this is beyond throwing stones in a glass house. I don't think you should be branded as a piece of shit for either of these things but man you cannot do purity tests over racist media if you're a fucking warhammer fan

[thefandomlesbian]

The Canopener

A House MD one-shot for @gaylilsherlock. In which Stacy leaves, and Wilson must help House pick up the pieces.

link to AO3

...

Fat raindrops blistered the windshield of Wilson’s car, the wind threatening to veer his car off the slickened asphalt as he pulled into the parking lot at Baker Street. The nor’easter tearing down the coastline had punctuated the news channels all day, but he had never been more immune to the stinging sideways sheets of water or the lightning splintering the navy-gray dusk of autumn. 

Stacy had called him. “I packed while he was at PT. I’m leaving.” She heard his silence as frigid rather than stunned. “I know you don’t think I should. It’s my only option.”

“It’s not the only option.” Wilson was begging, though it didn’t sound like begging. “He needs you.” 

“He hates me.”

“ And he needs you.” He licked his lips, knowing intrinsically he had lost this battle before he even knew he was fighting. He took one last stab at it. “You owe it to him to see it through. You chose this for him.” 

“I shouldn’t have.”

Wilson shattered like glass. “You saved his life.”

“I know.” Stacy ended the call. Wilson didn’t know if he would ever speak to her again. He didn’t know if he ever wanted to speak to her again. House could be a cantankerous bully. But she loved him, or at least, she was supposed to. How could she leave? How could she regret saving him? Wilson would never leave. (Wilson existed in other people’s lives without ever taking his clothes out of his luggage, always one emotional flight away from permanent severance, but for House, he could make every exception.)

The rain smarted through his blazer like paintballs as he entered the apartment building. Usually, he thought of it as rather tranquil, but today, it was sedated, like the human body in active stages of dying. The stormy winds knocked death rattles from the foundation of the building, throaty moans exhaling from the old stone before he had lifted a hand to knock on the apartment door. 

He didn’t announce himself. He knocked twice, and then he entered the unlocked door.

All of the lights were turned off in the living room, only the dim daylight filtering in through the windows. Wilson went for the lamp. “Don’t.” House spoke from somewhere in the room filled with darker silhouettes on dark backgrounds. So, standing back, he waited for his eyes to adjust. 

Everything was gone. All of their pictures, her trinkets, the quilt throw she kept over the back of the couch. She left the furniture—all of that had been there when she arrived. And she left House. 

Wilson presumed House hadn’t been on the floor when Stacy walked out the door of his life, but in any case, he was there now, curled up on his left side in the fetal position, forearm tucked pathetically under his head, baleful expression on his face. His boxer shorts fell just above the glossy sheen of the wound vac dressing on his leg, tubing disconnected and dangling loosely over the floor. The suction canister was plugged into the wall a few feet away. 

“Okay. You’ve had floor time. Let’s get up.” Picking House up off of the floor wasn’t a new task. Stacy wasn’t strong enough to get him up when he fell, or rather, House loved her too much to put his weight on her shoulders. They sent up flare gun distress signals in the night for Wilson to come help. This was no different.

House slapped his hands hard. “Don’t touch me.” It was so different. 

“You can’t lie on the floor forever.” Wilson withdrew only a few inches to examine the tubing of the wound vac. “We need to plug this back in. It’s meant to be continuous suction for a reason.” 

Snaking the tubing back up to himself protectively, House poised over it like a predator preparing to strike; no, like a cat cowering over its kittens in the face of a forest fire, terrified and desperate. “Stupid thing won’t stop fucking beeping.”

Wilson picked up the suction canister and examined the screen. “The line is clotted off.”

“I know.”

“The dressing needs to be changed.”

“I know! ” House snapped. His mouth twisted into a sneer. 

Again, Wilson squatted to grab him. House withdrew, but Wilson was faster. “Let’s get you up.” He took him under the arms like a child, the way he always did, their faces close together, Wilson keeping his back straight and his knees bent to lift without hurting himself, an insanely vulnerable position. In the darkness of the living room, he didn’t see House pull back his closed fist. 

The impact of knuckles to jaw knocked him backward onto his ass, vision going skewed as he fumbled to right himself in shock. He propped his weight onto his elbows to peer at House, who looked just as shocked as Wilson was. Shocked and frightened, dragging himself backward, a panicked anguished sheen of tears appeared in his quicksilver eyes, left knee bending upward to defend his vital organs. He was prepared to be hurt. 

Stabbing pain pulsed through his face. He probed the area with deft fingers. Then, shakily, he got to his knees—his knees, not his feet, crawling toward House like an infant. His trousers picked up all the silt on the hardwood floor, which seemed to have gone unswept for weeks. House only gave up scooting away from him when his back hit the wall. His chest heaved in a fractured, stifled sob, the breath catching there and lingering, unable to hold it and unable to free it. 

When a sound finally came out of him, it was the high-pitched, pressurized squeak of air being released from a balloon incredibly slowly. 

A hefty clink and loll on the floor caught Wilson’s attention. A can of Beanee Weanees rolled away from House’s hand. He swiped at it, a weak grab, before he conceded defeat and curled back into himself, not meeting Wilson’s gaze, whole body braced for Wilson to attack him. 

Wilson didn’t. He picked up the dented can of Beanee Weanees, the label starting to wear off from being dinged and beaten on the floor. 

“She took the canopener,” House croaked. 

Wilson nodded once. He rocked his weight back onto his haunches, reaching into his trouser pocket for his multitool. It had a dozen extensions, each of which House had mocked on more occasions than either of them could count, but when he flicked out the blade of the manual canopener and popped the tin lid off of the can, House was silent. He still braced for the impact of a punch. 

Wilson didn’t put the open can in House’s hand. He placed it on the floor next to him. Then, he sidled up beside him, back to the wall, shoulders almost touching. They sat with parallel postures like synchronized swimming, left knees bent, right legs extended, hands in their laps, both facing the blank wall where Stacy’s pictures had hung. 

House didn’t have a spoon. He picked up the can. Wilson stilled his wrist. “You’ll cut your mouth.” The touch froze House’s muscles, but the fingers wrapped around his forearm were warm, dry from years of sanitizing obsessively, soft from his favorite strawberry-scented hand lotion. House had often mocked that, too, but now, the sweet scent was the only thing in his apartment that felt like home. 

Holding eye contact with Wilson, he brought the jagged edge of the open tin to his lips, slurping some frank chunks and brothy beans from inside it. The tin was acrid when his tongue incidentally brushed the rim. The edge of the can didn’t cut into his skin, quite a matter of accident rather than skill. After his long sip of beans, he put the can back on the hardwood floor between their hips. 

A long moment of silence passed. Then, Wilson picked up the can and also poured a mouthful into his lips. His hands were shaking, jaw swelling and bruised. The razor-sharp point of torn metal grazed his lower lip. He licked the blood away before House could see. 

“You hate Beanee Weanees,” House said. 

“Yeah,” Wilson said. He took another sip.