#one of the gold corners isn't mirrored

[justheblueberry]

the process of binding a study in scarlette:

SO. i had a Vision for this fic, right from the start. so many new things i wanted to do and almost no idea how to do it. but let's start from the beginning, shall we?

i usually don't do anywhere NEAR this amount of brainstorming and designing but the fic has so many motifs and details that i knew i wanted to fit in, so i had to draw it all out and piece everything together.

here are a few of my behind-the-scenes brainstorming notes:

this was the very first brainstorm i did, it was basically me flinging a bunch of cool book stuff i saw other people doing at the wall and seeing what stuck in my brain.

this was an idea for a cover which incorporated symbols for each of the chapters inside the branches, but i just wasn't fond of the execution of the draft. so i scrapped it, eventually settling on the silhouette cover for the final.

i had big dreams! and not much experience to back it up with ! so after finishing the typeset, i put it aside for a bit and did a couple other binds first.

this was my second brainstorm, i started to figure out the direction i wanted the illustrations to go in, no longer aimlessly tossing vibes around!

i did a lot of waffling about different versions of the back cover design. here's a couple that i scrapped!

over the summer, i decided to finally stop procrastinating and printed out the typeset (after making a few revisions to it). it's a Chonk. i pressed it some, which helped, but it definitely still had a lot of swell.

sewing with red thread.

endpapers cut, glued, and a glow in the dark paint test.

built a press...up til this point i'd just been stacking a bunch of thick books on top of my binds, but for this one i needed a lying press to sand my edges, so i finally caved. who needs tools? my edge painted book needs tools :(

sanding edges with power sander

so. this was my first time doing anything with edges, so i did a little test on a book i already had; it was a bit of a process trying to work out how much i should dilute it, and it took a bit of trial and error. doing the bottom edge first was the right call ^^;; it's the flakiest out of all the edges on the final bind. i'm really happy with the fore edge though, i got a really even and nice coat on it.

rounding, gluing and (an attempt at) backing

so. it was the day before i was moving. i had run out of time to procrastinate any more. the rounding was quite rushed and i barely backed it at all. there was also the fact that i don't have backing boards and was winging it with absolute unfounded confidence. it still turned out okay though so i got away with it!

dug out a 5 yen coin from who knows where for the bookmark. didn't have pliers with me yet so i had to close the crimp with a metal water bottle and arm strength. who needs tools right

endbands. i love sewing endbands, but man, for chonk fics it gets Long. i think they each took like 2-4 hours to do. i briefly considered learning double core endbands for this bind but decided against it as i barely just got a handle on regular ones. discovery: my ambitions have limits!

this was my finalized cover design. i had planned to do it all with htv, but last minute decided to do the silhouette as a linocut instead. i'd never done one before but i had the materials and the fearlessness that only a beginner (who does not know the limits of fear) can have; i think it turned out good :>

the final stretch!!!! it was at this point, when i realized that the size i'd carved the linocut at would be too wide for the half binding case i had planned. improvisation time. i decided to switch from a regular case binding to a three piece bradel. i have only done case bindings and stab bindings at this point...and with only mild panic and stubborn hubris to fuel me, i went for it. i had already attached an oxford hollow and cut my boards, but it probably wouldn't make too much of a difference! fuck around and find out!

cutting the cloth and adhering the htv. the summary on the back was HELL to weed, and some of the letters ended up crooked. i should've just printed it letterpress, but i was running out of patience.

i followed DAS bookbinding's tutorial on youtube of his in-boards three piece bradel and the part where i had to tuck in the spine cloth in between the hollow was definitely the trickiest, but it went okay in the end!

after attaching the boards and gluing down the endpapers i was finally done!!!! after months and months of the unfinished textblock guilting me from the corner of my room, it's finally finished! fancy pics coming soon!

i learned SO MUCH from this bind, sanding edges, painting edges, linocuts, multiple colors of htv, oxford hollows, and a whole new style of binding....yeah. it was a ride! thanks for reading to the end!

[love-quinn]

—PEACE OF MIND

summary — when carmen finds out that you're putting yourself in danger to come in to your waitressing job at the bear, he admittedly gets pissed. he's not super proud of his reaction, but the two of you manage to work something out to ease his worries.

warnings — swearing, mentions of customers being assholes, the implication that if reader isn't being fed at the restaurant she doesn't eat due to money reasons, very brief mentions/implications of the possibility of reader being attacked at night

pairing — carmen berzatto x fem!waitress reader, not established relationship

pronouns — she/her, reader is HEAVILY implied to be female, also there's technically no pronouns in this one but i consider this to be the same waitress reader as my last one which does have pronouns

word count — 1.9k

note — this can 10000% be read as a standalone but i do have another carmy x waitress fic here that i think takes place kinda in the same universe if you wanna check that one out?? i hope u enjoy <333

If you were somebody who wasn’t a fan of the cold, then Chicago wasn’t the city for you. It’s one of your least favourite parts of living in Illinois, having to wear four layers to bed if you don't want to freeze in your sleep. Your apartment doesn’t have proper heating because proper heating is for rich people, apparently. You barely make enough to afford rent as it is. 

You’re doing fine. You make rent and utilities, you eat lunch and dinner at the restaurant most days. You’re not swimming in gold coins by no means, but you’re fine. That’s the reason you show up early to every single shift, if you’re being honest, you’re guaranteed at least a sandwich. 

The fact that it makes you look like a dedicated employee doesn’t hurt either.

Even when you have to trek from the train platform after getting off the L. You’re not the first person punching in the code to the service entrance that afternoon, but the kitchen is free of yelling. Sydney’s at the end of the line, it’s her shift for Family, and she flashes you a smile as you shove your duffel into your locker.

It’s not raining outside but the air is so cold and damp outside, and you dab your face with a towel. The kitchen is so much warmer than outside that for a moment it’s uncomfortable. Sydney watches you out of the corner of her eye as she sautes a collection of vegetables. “Are you alright? Is it wet out there?”

You shake your head, grabbing your apron and using the mirror you hung up on the back of your door to fix your appearance. “Just cold, sorry. I’ll be fine. You get in okay?”

Sydney nods, holding out a spoon for you, hand cupped to prevent anything from landing on the floor. You don’t question it, opening your mouth and accepting the sauce while trying to minimise the contact between your mouth and the spoon as much as possible. “Fuck, that’s good. Is there sesame oil in there?”

You didn’t know a whole lot about food if you were honest, there’s a reason that you’re not a member of the kitchen staff. But Sydney’s been teaching you slowly but surely how to recognise different flavours, which ones go best together, which ones don’t.

Her eyes light up. “Yes! You like it?”

You shut your locker, moving to stand right behind her. Your chin lands on her shoulder, watching the way she rotates her medley of ingredients. You and Sydney have started becoming actual friends rather than just work friends, the two of you went out to dinner last Sunday, miraculously neither of you had to work. “Love it, need any help?”

“No, you’re all good. Go find Richie, I’m sure he needs help with whatever shit he’s doing.”

You leave her alone with a squeeze on the elbow, heading out into the dining room to find Richie. Richie isn’t out there but you do find Carmen pulling the chairs off the tables. You don’t bother talking, you and Carmen both appreciate the quiet in a workplace as loud as the restaurant. The second you put the first chair down Carmen is flinching. “You’re early,” he says, trying not to show his irritation.

He’d left the kitchen to feel productive while being alone, but he doesn’t want to yell at you. You deal with that enough. Yelling in the kitchen is natural, it’s fucking loud in there. If he doesn’t yell, he doesn’t get heard. People aren’t moving fast enough, people aren’t using proper technique, they’re running out of ingredients, things are being moved. If Carmen didn’t yell in the kitchen it would probably burn down somehow.

You deal with all that and you have to keep a smile on your face. You get yelled at for mistakes that other people make, and you never yell back. You take it all and yeah, sometimes you need to step out into the kitchen with tears in your eyes, but you cop it all and you go back out there.

You don’t need Carmy yelling at you as well.

You shrug casually, smoothing the tablecloth. “I am a slave to the public transit system.” It’s less embarrassing than admitting you’re trying to save money by eating at work whenever you can. 

Carmen stops at that. He doesn’t know why that’s surprising to him. He’s always here before you and he’s always here after you leave. He assumed he’d never seen your car in the parking lot because of that, but apparently, it’s because you don’t have one. “You took the train here?”

It’s early afternoon and people are turning their headlights on already. The closest train station is a fair walk away and it’s freezing out there. 

You nod, not taking much notice of the change in tone. “Yeah, I usually do.”

Carmen’s abandoned the table he’s dressing to turn around and look at you. It’s almost completely dark outside, it’s the middle of winter. “You walk to work?”

You look up at him. “Yeah, Carm.” You’re really hoping he’ll drop it, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on the way you avoid looking at him. 

“That’s so fucking dumb,” he doesn’t mean to snap, but the mood in the room is frozen now. “It’s like two degrees out there, why the fuck would you do that?” You regret coming out to help him. Usually, this stuff is already done by the time you show up to work, early as usual. 

You put down the last chair at the table you’re working on and brush off your apron. “It’s not like I have any other choice, Carmen,” you’re trying to keep your voice even. The dining room is empty, it’s still, and it feels much more awkward than having the conversation anywhere else would’ve felt. “I don’t really have many other options.” 

You look around the dining room and decide that leaving Carmen to finish setup isn’t an awful fate. 

“Yes, you do!” He doesn’t drop it. His fists are clenched at his side to stop him from flinging his arms up in frustration. “You have so many other options! Why did you pick the fucking stupid one?” You can handle being yelled at. It’s a part of the job. It happens to you every single day without fail. You can handle it.

That doesn’t mean that you have to take it from Carmen, though.

“Stop it,” you don’t raise your voice at him, but you’re not quiet either.

“I just don’t fucking get it,” he huffs. Once he’s started he can’t make himself stop. 

You sigh, loudly. “Yeah, I’m not asking you to, Carmen. Okay, but don’t treat me like garbage because I can’t afford a car.”

That’s the final straw in the conversation with him, and you turn to go back into the kitchen. Maybe Richie will be playing Angry Birds on his phone in the office and he’ll let you watch. Carmen’s frown deepens. “What the fuck are you talking about? Who gives a shit that you can’t afford a car?” He dodges the table he was working on and rushes to follow you. He’s a lot less graceful than you always are with it and that’s without the tray of drinks. “Do you see that shit out there?” He stands in front of you now, pointing a heavy, tattooed arm out at the front window. “It’s fucking Chicago. You can’t be walking here in twenty fucking degrees, honey! Do you not get that? Look at you! If someone pulls a knife on you out there what the fuck are you gonna do?”

You’re frozen in front of him now. He’s throwing so much at you that you don’t know what to say. 

He’s going back to setting up now, but as he turns he blows out a breath. “Get that through your fucking head, yeah?”

That’s the part that frustrates you the most. He does this all the time, he presents you with ten different problems and no solutions. You don’t need Carmen to tell you how to live your life when you’re struggling as it is. “How else do you want me to get to work? It’s either that or you find a new fucking waitress, okay? So can we let it go? What the fuck do you want me to do about it, Carmen? ”

Carmen doesn’t want to let it go. You take the train in the fucking pouring rain and walk every night only to be yelled at by a bunch of assholes over steak. 

“I want you to not walk through Chicago in the middle of the night!” He’s exasperated. “Yesterday you left after eleven, do you know how fucking dangerous that is? Fucking… Fuck?” It comes out as a question. “Why the fuck have you been leaving me here at night to go walk home alone? What the fuck do you think I’m here for?”

You’re getting upset by the yelling, and now that he’s said everything he needs to say he can see that he’s making you visibly panicked. “I don’t know what you want from me!” You let out finally, words exhaling from your chest with force. “Just tell me what you want or stop fucking yelling at me!”

He says your name quietly, letting out a frustrated huff. “Fucking- Okay. Okay.” He runs a hand through his hair and has to bend at the waist, leaning on the table you just fixed up, head buried in his arms. He takes a quick three second breather, trying to force down the ugly bubble of anger that’s rising familiarly to the surface, ready to spill out of his mouth. “If we are at the restaurant together and it’s the middle of the night, and I have a car…” he pauses, trying to give you time to follow along after previously overwhelming you. “... and you don’t.” You blink over at him. “Why the fuck would you not ask me to drive you home?”

“Because you’re my boss?” The answer comes easily, and it almost startles him how quickly you respond. “What? Why are you asking me this?”

Carmen knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t offer the same courtesy to Marcus or Fak or god forbid Richie. Sydney or Tina? If they asked, sure. But he would never stand in front of them in the dining room to yell at them for not asking. He likes to think it’s because he knows you’re different. You don’t yell back, you don’t antagonise him, you don’t push like they do. You handle it, and you’re gentle and you’re soft and for some fucking reason the idea of anything happening to you makes him feel like he has just been mugged in the street. 

“Just,” he waves a hand in front of his face. He can hear Sydney calling out, probably something important knowing her. “Please, honey, promise me that you’ll let me at least drive you to the fucking train station? Okay? For my own peace of mind. How far away from the station do you live?”

You tell him and he’s immediately groaning. “No, alright. I’m driving you home.” He sounds frustrated, not mad at you, but less than pleased. You don’t take it to heart. “Now please, go back inside the kitchen and fucking eat something, you’re giving me an irregular heartbeat.”

[thehorrorgirlstyles]

Be my Queen

King!Loki x Commoner!reader

Warnings: Royal AU, Mentions of death, Swearing, 18+ content, blood, violence, mature themes, sexual themes & words, dark themes

Note: I am not an expert with Royal titles, I tried as closely to follow what I know, but there could be some mistakes such as status.

Summary: Loki has taken a liken to you, wanting you to be his queen....his mother has other plans in mind.

____________________________________________________________

"Mother, MOTHER!" you yell out, running towards her. The guards drag her limp body away from you, she leaves a trail of blood behind. "PLEASE MOTHER!" You cry out as they disappear around the corner. You keep running, trying to reach her, but she's gone and you can't seem to keep up. You can't feel your body as tears stream down your face. You continue to run, but you end up back where you started. Blackness surrounds you as you drift off losing consciousness. Your eyes close and you feel yourself falling, hitting the floor with a "thump!".

_______________________________________

You wake up in a cold sweat, breathing deeply. This has been the third time you've had this nightmare this week. The recurring dream of your mother haunts you, but you know that it isn't true. It's just a nightmare. She passed away in her sleep due to a disease, your own father told you when you were eight asking, "Where mommy has gone?". So why do you keep having this nightmare you wonder?

You get out of bed and head to the bathroom. You have no time to think about the dream as you have more important things to do today. Loki's ceremony where he will be announced King happens in a few days. As the daughter of the Royal Advisor and executive officer, it is your job to help the servants and ladies-in-waiting with making sure everything is ready when the day comes. The kingdom has been over crowded as of late as the commoners and people of the kingdom are excited to see Loki become king. It is believed that he will be a great ruler as he is kind and compassionate to those of less status. You especially are happy to see Loki become King, he deserves it.

When you get out of the shower, you sit down at your vanity and brush your hair. Looking into the mirror you realize what this means for Loki and you. He will have to take a Queen and you have little to no status. You only reside in the palace because your dad is their right hand man. Queen Frigga has been like a mother figure to you as your family grew up serving the royal family and has provided your family with the honor of residing in her kingdom of Asgard, her saying that it will be easier to call on you if you live in their quarters. When your mother passed, Frigga told you that you would take her place and become her lady-in-waiting as soon as you turned 18, which happens to be the same day as Loki's ceremony.

As you and Loki grew up together, you developed feelings. You have been seeing Loki since you guys were 16. You don't know how you'll be able to see him grow old with someone else, but you know he'll have to. You finish up getting ready when you hear a knock sound on your door. You tighten your robe around yourself, walking towards the noise.

"Yes?" you answer the door looking out to see Emma, a servant.

"Hello m'lady Prince Loki asked me to give these to you" She comes in and hangs 2 dresses on your closets doors. One is green, the other gold, both covered in diamonds each stunningly gorgeous.

"He said to choose which one you like best to wear today as well as the jewelry I laid out on your bed" She points to the Emerald earrings and diamond necklace.

"You can find him in the enchanted garden when you're done and I'll be back later to clean up your room" She walks out closing your door.

You look at the dresses deciding on which one to wear. Loki has been gifting you presents for quite some time. While you enjoy them you also feel like it's too much. You should be helping the servants, instead your playing dress up, living a life that only someone of royal status should.

__________________________

"Y/n" Loki looks at you with a small smile on his face.

You walk into the garden coming face to face with Loki.

"I see you chose the green my favorite color...You look beautiful in anything you wear my love, but you look breath taken right now" He grabs your hand, pulling you in closer. He wraps his arm over your waist, kissing you passionately.

After a minute, you back away and put your hand on his chest, "Loki, I-I..."

He looks into your eyes with concern, "What is it darling, are you alright?"

"Loki why I appreciate the grand gestures and the big fancy dresses, you can't keep doing this".

"Doing what, I don't understand..do you not like the dress, I can have another made for you my dear" he pushes a strand of your hair out of your face, his arm still holding your waist.

"No its not that...its jus-...its just that your going to be king soon and I'm no one Loki" "Your going to have to take a Queen and I am simply your servant...a commoner at best.. I'm only here because of my father"

"Y/n my love for you is stronger than any title, if being King means that I lose you.. then I shall simply stay a Prince" "However, since I can chose who will be my Queen, when I become King, I chose to take you as mine"

You look at him in shock, "bu-But Loki I'm not a Princess, it's goes against the rules".

"It doesn't matter darling, I will have the highest authority, what I say shall go and if anyone dares to say something I will deal with it myself" "Titles don't mean anything to me, in my eyes you are so much more, you have always been since I first laid my eyes on you back when we were only little beings"

A tear slips from your eyes and he wipes it away. You kiss him deeply and he roughly grabs your hips pulling you in closely. Everyday you crave his touch, you will never get enough of him. He pulls you towards the stone wall in the garden. Your back hits the wall and he hikes your leg up. You wrap it around his hip as you grind against each other.

"God, I can't wait to make you my Queen" he groans out, grabbing your neck and deepening the kiss. He's rough with his movement like he hasn't touched you in days. Your dress prevents you from actually doing anything right now, your corset feeling like its knocking the breath out of you. It is probably a good thing since you are in a public place where anyone could walk by. The garden mostly being inclosed by large glass windows and a few stone walls.

"Fuck" he slams his hand by your head, against the stone. "Shall we go to my bed chambers right now?, I need to take you Y/n.. you are making me a madman" He moves towards your neck, biting and sucking, making you moan out.

"While that sounds like a lovely idea my Lord, we both have duties to attend to and I think we have lost track of time" you giggle out, wrapping your hands around his neck.

"I don't mind losing myself in you" He goes back to your waist, pulling you in closely, meeting your mouth. You kiss him back, both moaning into it.

You hear someone clear their throat. You both quickly back away from each other. Your face reddens as you realize it's his mother that interrupted you.

Loki pulls his shirt down and tugs on his collar, sorting out his suit. He clears his throat, "uh- Mother what seems to be the matter?"

Frigga looks between the both of you. You can't tell, but there seems to be something behind her eyes that doesn't look happy. Even though she smiles and walks further into the garden to meet you, "Son, Princess Amor is here to meet with you, she is in the foyer with Duke William".

Loki goes to complain, but is stoped by Frigga, "It is advise that you see to her, now" She gives her son a warning look. Frigga has been trying to set her son up with a Princess over the last few weeks.

He sighs and looks to you, "I'll be back as soon as I can" he gives you a sympathetic look and kisses the top of your head, walking out the garden.

Frigga watches him leaves and looks to you, "Dear, walk with me will you?"

"Of course Frigga" you give her a small smile and go to start walking.

She stops you, "Its your majesty". You look at her, she's never once made you call her that, it has always been Frigga since you were little, but you nod and she smiles at you.

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

You guys walk to the end of the palace outside to where the dungeon is kept, she opens the door to the basement and you look at her.

"Why are we going down here?"

"Why my dear, I simply wish to show you a part of the plaace you haven't seen before is all" She smiles, but it doesn't meet her eyes. You can't help but feel that something is wrong, but you follow her down the stairs.

It's cold and dark, the stairs seeming to go on forever. You finally reach the bottom and see a bunch of rooms some with prison bars. You guys walk to the end of the hall. On the way you peep into one of the rooms and see blood smeared on the walls, chains hanging from the ceiling.

You can't help but ask, "What exactly do you use this place for?"

She turns around and motions you to continue following her. You reach the end of the hall and enter the biggest room of the dungeon. Inside is more chains and a large table in the middle that looks like a guillotine.

"To answer your question, this area of the palace is used for anyone that crosses the kingdom, such as traitors or thieves"

"So like a prison, where they serve out their time...pay back their debt?" You ask looking around the room.

"Yes exactly..except they don't serve out their time.. you seen we have other rules around here that we have to enforce in order to keep the peasant in control, an eye for a eye if you will".

You stop your movements and look at her, "You kill them!?"... "But Loki would never dare to do such a thing".

She laughs, "Yes I see my son is a little too weak to carry out these things, which is why I carry out the orders".

"You command the guards to kill...but why Frigga?.. they're still people, people with families and children".

"IT'S QUEEN FRIGGA TO YOU AND YOU WILL ADRESS ME A SUCH!" she yells at you. You jump back in shock. "They should have thought about that before crossing me..GUARDS SEIZE HER!"

You look up and see five men come rushing in, they grab you roughly. You try to get away from them, but their hands dig into your skin, making you cry out, "Wh-What are you doing?" You look to Frigga. Why is she doing this to you?

"You see dear my son is deeply in love with you and I can't have that, it makes him weak, and you are no one..a nobody, he needs to marry someone of royal status... a Princess" "I let you both have your fun, but now he will be crowned King in a few days".

"B-But I don't understand you practically raised me, my family has been apart of yours for so long.. I looked at you like you were my own mother!"

"I know dear and I'm sorry for that, your father has been quite loyal to us and I to have looked at you as my daughter, but the fact is that you aren't.. and I need my son to marry someone that will be an asset to our kingdom.. you are simply not that, its nothing personal dear".

The guards move you towards the table, strapping you to it with ropes. You squirm as you try to get free, but it's no use the ropes burn against your skin. "He'll never forgive you for this..Loki will never look at you the same!" You cry out.

"He won't know it was me.. neither will your father, he will still be serving us as if you never existed" She laughs in your face, "Just like he did with your mom"

"What?" You look at her, "My mom died of disease".

"Is that what he told you?" .. "I had her taken away and killed, she was a pest, my husband couldn't seem to take his eyes off her, so I got rid of her and him".

It wasn't a dream? It was real? The guards really did drag her away and you saw it happen..

More tears stream down your face. Frigga comes up to you and pets your hair, "Shhhh sweetie its okay it will be over soon, I am truly sorry it had to come to this.. I would have had you just marry off to someone else, but you're ruined. I know Loki ruined you and no one wants a whore of a woman who has slept with another man".

"Please, don't do this.. Please Frigga I beg of you!" You cry out in a last attempt to save your life.

"Shh we wasted enough time, soon Loki will come looking for her and we need to get rid of her body, hurry up and pull the lever!" She shouts to the guards.

"Can't we have a little fun with her first, I mean she is just stunning" You hear a guard say.

"You can have fun with her after you kill her, she won't fight you back because she'll be dead, less hard on you." Frigga replies sounding annoyed.

You look at them in disgust, how could this woman you once thought of a mom do this to you?

"Oh but I like the chase, I like when they fight back, screaming out for someone to come to the rescue, but no one hears them" He smirks at you and touches your face. You whimper and flinch away from his touch.

"If you make it quick, then I'll grant you the permission".

The guards smiles at Frigga's response and gets on top of you, he rips the dress, your corset showing, while only a piece of fabric remains on your arms. You try to fight back against him, "STOP, PLEASE, SOMEBODY HELP, HELP ME!" You scream out.

He chuckles at your cries, "It's a shame that we have to kill you afterwards, such a waste of a pretty face".

Suddenly a man barges into the room, "MY QUEEN!" he looks to Frigga, frightened.

"What is it!"

"THE PRINCE, HES COMING, A GUARD TOLD HIM WHAT YOU WHERE PLANNING!"

Frigga face pales, "HURRY UP GET OFF THE GIRL, KILL HER NOW!"

The guard gets off of you immediately and while you're thankful he couldn't progress any further, you are also now scared for death faces you.

Frigga decides that the guards are taking too long of a time, as you see her push one out of her way and walk towards the lever. You screams out for help. When your prayers are answered.

"STOP THIS ISNTANT!" Loki opens the door.

Frigga's hand pauses in front of the lever. Tears continue to stream down your face.

"BACK AWAY FROM HER!" Loki rushes to your side and begins undoing the ropes which hold you down. You look at him and see a look that you've never seen before. He is beyond angry.

"Loki I-" Frigga begins.

"DO NOT SPEAK TO ME!" he raises his voice, not even looking at his mother.

He finally gets you free and helps you off the table. Your dress or what's left of it falls off your body due to the rip. Loki looks at you in disbelif. He pulls you to him and holds your sobbing body as you shake with fear. He shushes you, continuing to hold you as you cry. He looks and sees all the bruises that litter your body. He snaps his head to the guards around him and then he finally looks to his mother.

"How could you do this?" he says barely above a whisper. "I will never forgive you for this, you are no mother to me and you are certainly not a Queen".

"Loki, I was only trying to save Asgard's future..Your future" Frigga pleads with him. You look and see tears forming in her eyes. How ironic you think.

Loki looks to the guards ignoring his mother, "Who touched her?". No one replies. "WHO FUCKING TOUCHED HER!" The guards flinch with fear.

"It was him, he tried t-to ra- me" You point to the guard that was on top of you. Loki looks at you and pulls you back into him.

"I want you to get on that table and pull the lever" he looks at the guard.

"What- But- but- I- she" the guard quivers in fear.

"Stay right here darling and close your eyes" Loki kisses the top of your head and lets you go. He walks over to the guard and you hear him punch him.

"Please, it was a mistake, I didn't mean to touch your lady my Lord" you hear him grunt out. Loki grabs the guard by his collar and throws him under the guillotine.. You hear the guard scream out as the blade cuts into his neck. Loki wipes the blood off his face that splattered on him, "Anyone else?" he looks around the room and back to you.

You finally open your eyes meeting his, your eyes fall to the lifeless body on the floor, but Loki moves to block your view. You quietly shake your head.

"Alright then, what shall I do with the use of you" .. "How about we start with you mother" Frigga looks up, scared when she sees the look in her son's eyes.

"Guards lock her away in one of the dungeon rooms, until I figure out what to do with her, maybe I'll let sweet Y/n decide, since it was her life you so blindly casted aside".

"Son-" Loki cuts her pleads off, "GUARDS!"

The guards look between each other not knowing who's orders to follow.

"I AM YOUR KING YOU WILL OBEY ME!" Loki yells out. The guards rush to grab Frigga, dragging her away. The image reminds you of your mother, funny you think, what goes around, comes around.

As soon as they're gone Loki rushes to your side. You see the pain in his eyes as he stares at you. "I am so very deeply sorry my darling, I should have known my mother would go behind my back like this" .. "I promise you I won't let any harm come to you ever again, we will rule together, you will be my Queen, Asgard's Queen, you deserve it more than any Princess, Y/n".

"As long as I am with you Loki, I don't care if I am Queen or a commoner". He holds on to you tightly with the promise of never letting go.

_______________________________________________________

Timeskip: 5 years later

"My Queen what color do you wish for the baby's room?"

"Hmmm I believe a dark shade of green would go nicely" You smile at Emma and rub your growing belly. "It's Loki's favorite Color".

Note: This was a longer one, as always hoped you enjoyed! :)

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

Can't get the whole "Do you think you'd kill for me one day ?" "Yes, of course I will my darling" out of my head, but make it the Papas x their most devoted ghouls. Basically murder ghouls offering very morbid gifts to the Papas. They like it.

TW for morally grey characters - both Papas and ghouls - blood, kind of body horror, I guess ? I think it is. It might be a bit disturbing, so. Read with caution.

Earth bringing a beautiful bottle to Primo's office one day, something definitely meant for rituals, a masterpiece of carefuly crafted glass, full of a dark red liquid. Too dark to be wine. He simply sets it on a shelf, under the First's cautious eyes, and in an instant, Primo knows.

"Won't it...coagulate, or...I don't know, dry, rot ?" he asks from behind his desk, setting his glasses down in front of him. Earth smiles, adjusting the bottle so that the light catches it just right.

"I made sure it won't."

Primo smiles when the ghoul takes his hand and presses a kiss to the ring he's wearing.

"Take care not to drink it, your body wouldn't like it much."

Primo cocks an eyebrow.

"You gift me a full bottle of blood - human, i presume - and I'm not even allowed to drink it ? How very tragic."

Earth's chuckle rumbles in his chest.

"You can only wish to be a vampire, but, do not act like this isn't a power trip for you. Having someone's blood displayed in your office. Being able to admire its unique color."

Primo's smile widens.

Secondo looking up from his work, carefully setting the ancient book he's restauring on the side when Alpha leans against the doorframe, hands behind his back.

Once he's sure he has the former Papa's full attention, Alpha steps in, setting something on the desk, between Secondo's hand.

It's a paperweight, the kind he loves, heavy half globe of glass, in which is trapped a curiosity ; Secondo has a growing collection of those.

It's the first time, though, that an eye is staring blindly at him from within its transparent confine. A beautiful shade of brown, that eye, rich and deep, with flecks of gold ; Secondo leans closer to examine it.

"Fascinating," he comments, "you know me too well."

Alpha grins, rounding the desk to stand behind Secondo's chair, massaging his tense shoulders as he whispers against his ear.

"Took me a while to find the color I wanted, I know you have a thing for that kind of brown eyes."

Secondo hums, turning the paperweight this way and that, letting light bounce off it, projecting rainbows on the wall. It will definitely have a special place on his desk, so that Secondo will be able to gaze at it whenever he wishes to.

Alpha kisses the corner of his mouth, almost reverently, and Secondo puts the paperweight down, letting his eyes flutter shut.

Omega helping Terzo dress one morning, but just as the former Papa is about to move away, his ghoul tugs on his sleeve, shoving something in his hand.

What the rosary is made of is, Terzo immediately knows. The beads, the inverted cross, they're an ivory white that is quite impossible to mistake for anything other than it is.

By the way Omega hooks his chin on Terzo's shoulder, arms wrapping around his middle, the former Papa has no doubt it's important for him, that gift.

"It's lovely, my dear ghoul. Did you make it yourself ?"

Terzo really means it. The piece of jewlery is delicate and elegant, something he'll wear with pride.

"I did. I'm glad you like it."

A pause. Terzo takes a moment to bask in Omega kissing up his neck, before he slips the rosary around it.

"Should I ask who's bones I'm wearing ?"

Omega chuckles, face now burried in his hair.

"You know better. All that matters is that you look fantastic, wearing someone's bone."

Terzo does, so he simply smiles, admiring how the necklace rests on his chest in the mirror, sinking into Omega's embrace.

Dew, wordlessly slipping a bracelet around Copia's wrist after practice. He looks down, surprised, as the ghoul lingers, hovering at his side.

A thin chain, trinkets dangling from it, mostly tiny coins with infernal symbols engraved on them and....oh. Teeth. Well, they sure look healthy.

Copia takes to examinate them, tests the point of a canine, pleased to find it still sharp, humming under his breath.

"That's quite the work you've put in, Dew, thank you. It's beautiful."

The fire ghoul takes Copia's hand, turning it until he can kiss the inside of his wrist.

"I figured you'd like it. They're perfect, aren't they ?"

Copia takes another teeth between his two fingers, holding it up for further inspection, smiling at how flawless it is.

"They sure are. Wish I had that kind of dental care, eh."

Dew snorts, tail gently squeezing Copia's hips, who let himself be pulled in the ghoul's side.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This fairly new 2023 home in Camden, ME is definitely one-of-a-kind. I have to question why the owners are selling after so short a time. The 7bds, 6ba, $2.2m home certainly has a vibe. Look at this one.

Huge columns and chandeliers frame the entrance hall. The columns look like upside down Greek columns.

More chandeliers and right next to the stairs there's a bar.

Very convenient. As soon as the guests come in they can have a drink right away.

There is a gold walkway above the main room. There's also a fish tank recessed in the wall.

In this corner is a living room area. The walls are lined with the same gold as the upper walkway, plus tile.

Next to the living room there's a dining area.

A wall with windows separates the kitchen from the main entrance.

Oh, there's the other side of the fish tank. Look at the fish art on the wall. Wow, look at the bright blue counters. I don't care much for the way it goes with the tile.

They must really love that tile. It even lines the open shelving. The floor tile clashes, too.

There's also a lot of open shelving on the bottom.

Here's a 1st fl. bedroom with an attached gold headboard.

More of that tile in the en-suite. A clear panel on the tub. Nope. Interesting choice of an electric green counter on the sink.

The 2nd fl. has a wide walkway.

The primary bedroom is large enough for a sitting area and it has sliders to a balcony.

It also has an oversized gold headboard.

Mural panel outside the bedroom. This home has a very specific style.

The terrace.

The primary en-suite also has the bright lime green counter and clear tub.

It appears that all of the bedrooms have the gold headboard and same bathrooms.

Down the stairs to the lower level there's a room with a small desk.

There is also a hall and on one side there's a rec room that mirrors the living room upstairs.

And, the laundry room is down here, too.

Deck on the back of the house.

Small yard and a shed.

0.70 Acre lot isn't very big, and it looks like they cleared just enough trees to build the house.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/23-Greenfield-Dr-Camden-ME-04843/221260627_zpid/

[thef1diary]

Don’t Date Him | P. Gasly

Summary: When you finally try to let go of the silly little crush on Pierre, he makes every effort to keep you from doing so.

Warnings: none just fluff

Word count: 2.4k

Pairing: pierre x fem!reader

It starts with recognizing that you'll never be anything more than a friend to Pierre. You knew each other for eight years now. All those years ago, you were new to Monaco, you had made the decision to pursue post secondary education in a new country. You are originally from France, which meant that you easily fit in the Monégasque culture. Since it is a small country, you and Pierre happened to find yourself in the same place multiple times.

Now, you were one of his closest friend. But that's all you'd be. Just a friend.

You don't remember the day you actually started liking him, but you do remember when you realized it. You usually tag along with Pierre when he goes to the gym, claiming that you'd only go if he'd accompany you. That day, you also accompanied him. Pierre and his trainer would be working out while you would do your own workout.

You don't remember when you started liking it when he would take off his shirt, or when he'd take a break to drink water and a small amount would dribble down the corner of his mouth.

That day, you had your headphones on, listening to music from your carefully crafted playlist with all your favourite songs. You were alternating dumbbells in your hands, doing bicep curls. You watched yourself in the mirror since your form wasn't the best, perhaps it was because you moved on to the next heavier weight which was slightly challenging.

You saw Pierre in the reflection, walking up towards you so you moved one side of the headphones so you could hear him. Pierre walked up behind you and placed one hand around your waist while the other was underneath your hand that was holding the weight. You sucked in a breath when his hand made contact with your bare stomach as you took off your zipper hoodie and now only in a sports bra.

"Relax your shoulders" he muttered. Releasing a shaky breath, you listened to him. You moved your hand that was holding the weight and saw how his hand followed it but never held it.

He didn't move his hand away from your body, instead as you were working out, he pulled you closer so you could feel the front of his body. Those mixed feelings made you very confused but you didn't have the courage to ask him about it.

Since you didn't get any other indication from him that he liked you, you had decided to move on from him. Pretend like you never felt anything for him which was a lot harder to do. You definitely started avoiding him more often and made it seem unintentional. You two hung out often, very often which meant that you needed to change that habit if you were going to get over your crush. You still attended races, but it was the summer break now and for a moment you wanted to delay your plan. You knew he'd make more plans since he isn't busy with the races, but you felt bad knowing that you'd have to deny him.

Charles invited you and Pierre to his yacht which you agreed to because you knew that there would be other people. You didn't trust yourself to be around Pierre alone. This crush is very stupid and what makes it worse is that it's one sided.

You were looking forward to the party, knowing that some other drivers and their partners would also be there. You decided to wear a white bikini with a white button up shirt that you decided to leave open. Taking a tote bag and filling it with essentials you need if you were going for a swim later. You accessorized with gold jewelry that stood out on your slightly tanned skin.

You made your way on to the yacht and saw Charles first. He walked up to you and hugged you, enveloping you between his arms. You two always hugged like that, it was honestly very comforting. Charles was like a brother to you, and you knew you could count on him because he made that clear from the first time you two met. However, you never told him about your crush on his best friend. That's exactly why; Charles and Pierre were very close so if Charles knew, then he would tell Pierre.

You talked to him for a bit then you felt a pair of arms hug you from behind, picking you up. You instantly knew who it was and you cursed yourself for recognizing him so easily. "Pierre! Put me down" you exclaimed but couldn't stop laughing as well.

He listened and spun you around and put an arm around your shoulder, side hugging you. You didn't pay any attention to that, instead you noticed what he was wearing. All white linen. Shorts and a button up shirt that was completely unbuttoned so his tanned chest was on display. You also noticed how his chain with the crucifix was also shining in the sun. He was wearing sunglasses so you couldn't see his coloured eyes.

He poked you in the arm and that's when you realized he was waiting for you to answer his question. "What?"

"I'm getting a beer, want one?" He asked again, looking at you with an amused face.

"Yeah, sure"

He nodded then moved his glasses down and gave you a wink before walking away. You didn't know what that was for. Before contemplating his actions, you were approached by Carmen. "He's an idiot"

She commented as she saw you watch Pierre but then you turned your head to face her. "What?"

"You like him, don't you?" She asked. "I don't know, maybe but there's no point because he doesn't see me like that" you admitted and it sounded so stupid once you said it out loud. It sounds like a stupid school girl crush. You are more mature than that.

"That's why he's stupid" Carmen stated which made you chuckle. "Yeah, I guess he is. But yours isn't as smart either" you jerked your head in George's direction who was having a beer chugging contest with Charles. Carmen shook her head with a smile on her face "he might not be the brightest but I still love him"

You pushed her away in a playful manner "yeah yeah I know".

Pierre came back towards you and handed you the beer, "what are we talking about here?"

You shook your head "nothing" but you saw Carmen looking at you with a smirk before she walked away.

You faced Pierre and he instantly sparked up another conversation. "Wanna go skydiving?"

You laughed at his excitement to go, he's been talking about it for a while now. "When?"

"Tomorrow? Me, you, and Charles?" He asked but you frowned, "I actually have plans tomorrow, but you two should go"

"You have plans with people other than me?" He asked and placed a hand on his heart. You smacked his arm "not funny".

"But seriously, cancel your plans. Let's go, we're gonna have so much fun" he tried convincing you and usually it would work but now you weren't going to give in. "Pierre, I'm not going to cancel my date for you" you saw his eyes widen and you realized your mistake. You didn't want to tell him about the date because he'd ask you so many questions.

"You have a date?" He asked and slightly winced when you nodded. "Who is it? And why didn't you tell me"

"That's why. You ask too many questions" You started to walk away but he pulled you back. "But.." he wanted to say something but couldn't get the words out. You listened, maybe just maybe he'd tell you what you always wanted to hear.

But he didn't say anything so you walked away.

—

The next day arrived quickly and you were getting dressed for your date. You met the guy on a dating app which is not something you normally do but when you started texting, you were actually interested in him. But he wasn't like Pierre. You cursed when you caught yourself comparing him to Pierre.

This was the time for you to move on. You did feel slightly guilty for using this guy to help you move on from Pierre, but you knew that if you didn't then you'd only think about him.

It was a dinner date at a well known, fancy restaurant which meant that you'd have to wear a dress. You didn't own many dresses, in fact it was Pierre and Charles who insisted on buying dresses while you resided in Monaco due to the nightlife there.

You decided on a light blue satin ruched corset dress with a slit down the side. You didn't want to show off too much skin but this one seemed elegant for the first date, especially a dinner date. You were putting on a pearl necklace when you heard a knock on the door. You checked your phone first, not seeing a message from the guy yet.

You opened the door and saw Pierre on the other side. He seemed out of breath and frantically looked around before making eye contact with you.

"Pierre, what are you doing here?"

He didn't answer your question, instead he invited himself inside.

"Hey, weren't you supposed to go skydiving with Charles today?" You questioned, trying to lighten the mood since he seemed stressed out or something of the sort.

"I didn't go"

"Why not?"

"Told him that I was sick" Pierre looked up at you since he was now sitting down on the couch.

You looked at him from the top to bottom and raised an eyebrow. "Liar"

"You don't think I'm sick?"

"You don't look sick" you pressed your palm on his forehead then cheek but he held it there once you tried to pull back.

"Now come on, I have a date to get to. I need to get ready" he let go of your hand and you turned around to go to your bedroom.

"You're wearing that?" You turned around to face him but he was holding his hands up in surrender, "I didn't mean that. You look amazing but do you remember where you bought that dress?"

You shook your head and waited to him to tell you. "Remember when we were at the mall and you immediately went inside this one store as soon as you saw this dress" he told you as he walked towards you. You didn't think Pierre would remember it.

"Then when you tried it on and showed it to me-"

"You liked it and said that blue looks good on me" you completed his sentence and he nodded.

"You know, when I said I was sick, it wasn’t entirely a lie" Pierre stated. "I'm sick of seeing you distance yourself from me"

"Pierre" you placed your hand on his chest when he was getting too close, you could smell his cologne.

"No, no, let me say this because if I don't now, I might lose everything I never realized I needed and wanted"

"I guess it's true that when you start to lose something, you realise it's worth. And one of the greatest things that has ever occurred to me is you. I was an idiot for being so oblivious to this and your feelings. I was afraid that if I told you, I'd lose you as a friend, but now I noticed that you're pulling away from me because you think I only want to be friends with you"

"I don't understand, Pierre. Are you saying what I think you are?" Your hand was still on his chest and you only noticed when he placed his hand on yours, then pulled you closer.

"I've been in love with you for years now. You're all I think about. Your smile; especially that dimple, your laugh, your godawful sense of humour that never fails to make me laugh. The way you cheer for me when I get a good result but also the times you're there to comfort me when I don't do as well as I could've. You're there to listen to me, even if it's at three in the morning for you and you have work the next day. I don't know why I've never told you. I guess I never realized that you reciprocated those feelings" Pierre poured his heart out into his speech and tears started welling up in your eyes.

"If you haven't succeeded in your plan of moving on from me, and still happen to have a little bit of love for me in here" he pointed to your heart, "then please don't go on that date. Don't date him"

"How did you-"

"George"

"Dammit, Carmen. They tell each other everything" you remember telling Carmen the details on a phone call the night after the yacht party because she couldn’t resist not knowing.

You were quiet for a moment. "This would end very badly if you did actually move on" Pierre commented and you hit his chest.

"I just need a moment to believe all of this. This isn't an elaborate prank right?"

"No. I would never do that to you"

"Good"

Pierre groaned, "come on now, I'm desperate to hear those three words from your mouth"

"I want pizza?" You laughed while he placed his head in the crook of your neck.

Your little bubble popped when you heard a knock on the door, indicating that your date was here. You were about to move away from Pierre when you felt him tighten his hold around your waist and he started kissing your neck. "Don't go" he muttered in your ear.

You held his face and made him make direct eye contact with you. "I love you Pierre"

You saw how his eyes brightened and the smile on his face when you spoke those words.

Then, for the first time, Pierre pressed his lips on yours. The kiss was full of longing need but also the love that you two never got to express until now. The man at the door was long forgotten and perhaps you wouldn't feel too bad about it since it was only the first date.

Before the kiss could turn into anything more, you pulled away. "You know, I did dress up for tonight"

Pierre's hands roamed over your hips while he lightly kissed your cheek "and you're very beautiful"

Pierre looked up at you, "let me take you out before I make you my girlfriend"

"What makes you think I'll say yes?"

"Are you not going to?"

"Ask me at dinner" you winked and kissed him on the cheek before you left the bedroom.

Pierre shook his head with a smile on his face "I am so in love with her"

[robolvrr]

Tf1 D-16 and Tf1 Megatron with a femme cybertronian reader that was his idol (and crush) in Iacon? Readers like let’s just say a queen in Iacon👍 Thank you!

phoenix, sing your song! ✧⁠*๑ 🎤

d-16/megatron x femme!cybertronian idol.

gladly! took some liberties. mild suggestive under the cut.

d-16

"heh heh. does dee have a crush?"

"wh— you know what pax. i'm not even gonna entertain that question with a response."

"lotta words for 'yes i wanna smooch on phoenix's tailpipes' -- whoof, OW!"

you know how d-16 worships his idols. which there aren't many but entertainment culture is actually very encouraged in iacon. except for the cogged, this is simply as it's stated -- enrichment. for the cogless? it's escapism and a source of motivation.

there's sentinel prime, of course. and megatronus, though the whole mining barracks knows that. however... there is also you. phoenix, sweetest vocals this side of the planet.

jazz was actually the one who got him into your music. orion isn't the only mech that frequently sneaks up to indulge in city life. he's just the one that usually gets caught and brags about it.

jazz managed to drag him to the farthest, farthest corner of an open venue for one of your shows. had to climb buildings and balance on a ledge just to view from above the concert space and the thousand of mechs crowded below. you're cogged and while he really doesn't pay too much mind to them outside of when the race occurs, he thinks you're... very, very pleasant to look like.

you got ruby plating and your chrome is sparkling.

there's lightning gold accents trim at your door-panel wings and your eyes look a lot like his. hazy, orange and bright with an energy he wants to cup in his servos.

entire time you sing your spark out he's sitting still. (actually, he's vibrating.) jazz has a lazy smile on his dermas and asks him if he wants to score some merch once the guards clear out.

after that evening? he shuffles his megatronus posters and stickers around his humble locker and plasters your face there in the space near his mirror. almost looks like you're smiling at him.

at first he tried his best to learn more about you. jazz jokes that he's accidentally created some superfan monster.

like, did you know that you were actually originally an bellhop? he can't imagine you fluttering after mechs with their luggage, but once upon a time you did.

there was a club in the hotel you worked in - angellite.

past bio and autobiodatas tell about how you worked your way up through the ranks before finally scoring a spot to getting to a microphone.

the rest? history.

so you're pretty, talented, pretty, hardworking -- did he mention pretty too?

jazz doesn't always accompany but d-16 starts to sneak out frequently when he isn't buried in work to any and every event he can.

meet and greet? you can bet he used all his rations to bribe a mech to bribe another mech to bribe the announcer to get his questions up to you.

there isn't an action, though he takes the "prime gossip" catalogues not as seriously, he isn't aware of regarding you.

"this one's out to the brave miners who keep this city living. half proceeds will be going to better recharge and work conditions and equipment. i love you iacon!"

that show had caused a lot of drama. he thought your unmoving support and genuine want to connect with all of your fans for the better of the city to be super inspiring.

there's rumors of you visiting the mines, shortly before the iacon 5000. he will call a million cycles off if it meant getting to see you, not yearning through pictures and recordings and miles of distance.

hums your songs under his breath when he works.

orion does not shut up about it. he enjoys your music too but mostly is happy d-16 is happy. though he does joke that he clearly has a type.

megatron

"no more hiding. no more deceit. stand with me, or fall with everything!"

you recall the fall of iacon with stunned melancholy. there isn't the time of forever to process what went down that fatal day.

the support meet in the mining sectors had been cancelled after the race. you were just as inspired by the rowdy pair that had flung themselves into the danger of an event that was never built for them to participate.

it hurt, to hear they had passed away. sentinel had given a grand speech and his condolences even while on the surface.

he had his loyal femme reach out personally. airachnid coldly informed that the death of the miners had momentarily halted the energon collection.

you were rigid when she suggested you perform. a modest showing of mourning, personally scribed to the miners and their fellow workers.

"this should motivate them", she had whispered. ""it's what they would have wanted."

what a nuke in your lap to find out quickly that had been a lie. all of it had. and you felt sick.

had any of your income, any of your efforts, even gone to your largest supporters? had you just been showboated around to be a. shiny little dream? keep the common mech in wanting?

before you could even figure out how to react, a silver mech towered over many and ripped the very thorn from your side clean in half.

his coolant sprayed all over. you had never seen a mech... die before. and sentinel was far from just that. he may have been a false one, but he was a prime.

you fixed your optics and zoomed in. megatron, the beast has yelled. megatron is my name.

then the buildings started to crash. the city crumbled as chaos threatened to envelop it. you had damaged your pedes and tangled your legs in rubble but even your own pain is not loud enough to pierce through the frightened masses. you're scared and angry and confused.

when the dust settles, you can't even vent yourself to comfort. larger arms yank your mangled chassis free and suddenly you're flying, shrieking as dozens follow. you watch iacon get smaller and smaller and when you finally stop twitching, weakly gaze at the head of formation.

a oiled tank, bursting through rock like pit on wheels.

your processors offline after that. you just recall floating, smoky oil and rage.

d-16

"the queen of iacon. that sounds nice."

i like to think that miners in particular rarely have the time to blow off too much steam. seriously. the captains and proctors make sure they work every klik of their shifts.

during recharge? well, that's a different story. the barracks are intimate but most don't actually worry about being a prude.

d-16 is constantly stressed. orion is on his hip nearly all the time so he enjoys slipping away to the shower stalls in his lonesome after grueling mining and just.. sit.

when he sits, his processors wander.

lately? they like to circle around you. you're not like sentinel prime or megatronus. you are tangible. he gets closer and closer to your radiance the more bold he gets.

his crush is wholesome and if not somewhat obsessive. like a hyperfixation. he doesn't mean to stare at your figures but you're just so cute.

your voice is a powerhouse too. he has wondered after quiet, whiny moments if your praise is just as poetic.

loves, loves your frame. it's flawless. jealousy doesn't grip his spark like it occasionally does weaving through the crowded city during daylight. he has to dunk his head in hot oil when he thinks about that lethargic grin and your helm speckled in rock and dust at his side.

has made one, deleted ahem... tribute video to you.

megatron

"go on. sing, songbird."

you were taken insurrection day by one of the seekers nearly torn apart.

much of your memory bank was corrupted. at least, that is what the doctor told you.

you aren't very trusting of his words. his attention is an extension of his master's, which leaves little time for you to plan escapes or hide from the inevitable.

megatron has been emptied, carved up and resurrected as a troubled, stubborn force of nature. he clearly is able to sift positive bonds aside as the sticky, hot upset he's toiled with overpowers them all.

however, you and him? never ended in bad terms. and that is the problem.

you're alarmed to learn he was the very miner that was pronounced dead to all of iacon. he speaks low and measured and you try your best to read him, because he's on the precipice of snapping what seems to be all the time.

the base of the newly birthed decepticons is quiet. you don't belong. the brand on your chassis doesn't belong.

he's still clinging to you. behind the heavy-duty doors of his berth, he tosses and turns in his rest, plagued with his actions.

his servos barely pleasure. though you sit heavy on his glossa as he lets those weapons of destruction give him a moments peace.

megatron isn't as manipulative and conniving as he comes to be later down the road. he still visits you though and you begin to feel guilty.

if you plan on being affectionate to gain your freedom it's a mistake.

suddenly, you're thrust into his arms. he scratches your paint. he's saying nasty, awful prayers in your audials and squeezing every saccharine lilt hungry.

"keep going... keep. hn. singing."

robolvrr 2024.

[imsobadatnicknames2]

What's OSR? I've seen you mention it several times in your RPG posts. Is it like a genre of rpg or...?

Hey, sorry I took so long to reply to this lol you probably already just googled it by now.

But like. Anyway.

OSR (Old-School Revival, Old-School Renaissance, and more uncommonly Old-School Rules or Old-School Revolution, no one can really agree on what the R means) is less like a genre and more like a movement or a loosely connected community that seeks to capture the tone, feel and/or playstyle of 70's and 80's fantasy roleplaying games (with a particular emphasis on old-school editions of Dungeons and Dragons, particularly the Basic D&D line but pretty much anything before 3e falls under this umbrella), or at least an idealized version of what people remember those games felt like to play.

There isn't exactly a consensus on what makes a game OSR but here's my personal list of things that I find to be common motifs in OSR game design and GM philosophy. Not every game in the movement features all of these things, but must certainly feature a few of them.

Rulings over rules: most OSR games lack mechanically codified rules for a lot of the actions that in modern D&D (and games influenced by it) would be covered by a skill system. Rather that try to have rules applicable for every situation, these games often have somewhat barebones rules, with the expectation that when a player tries to do something not covered by them the GM will have to make a ruling about it or negotiate a dice roll that feels fair (a common resolution system for this type of situation is d20 roll-under vs a stat that feels relevant, a d6 roll with x-in-6 chance to succeed, or just adjudicating the outcome based on how the player describes their actions)

"The solution is not on your character sheet": Related to the point above, the lack of character skills means that very few problems can be solved by saying "I roll [skill]". E.g. Looking for traps in an OSR game will look less like "I rolled 18 on my perception check" and more like "I poke the flagstones ahead with a stick to check if they're pressure plates" with maybe the GM asking for a roll or a saving throw if you do end up triggering a trap.

High lethality: Characters are squishy, and generally die much more easily. But conversely, character creation is often very quick, so if your character dies you can usually be playing again in minutes as long as there's a decent chance to integrate your new PC into the game.

Lack of emphasis on encounter balance: It's not uncommon for the PCs to find themselves way out of their depth, with encounters where they're almost guaranteed to lose unless they run away or find a creative way to stack the deck in their favor.

Combat as a failure state: Due to the two points above, not every encounter is meant to be fought, as doing so is generally not worth the risk and likely to end up badly. Players a generally better off finding ways to circumvent encounters through sneaking around them, outsmarting them, or out-maneauvering them, fighting only when there's no other option or when they've taken steps to make sure the battle is fought on their terms (e.g. luring enemies into traps or environmental hazards, stuff like that)

Emphasis on inventory and items: As skills, class features and character builds are less significant than in modern D&D (or sometimes outright nonexistent), a large part of the way the players engage with the world instead revolves around what they carry and how they use it. A lot of these games have you randomly roll your starting inventory, and often this will become as much a significant part of your character as your class is, even with seemingly useless clutter items. E.g. a hand mirror can become an invaluable tool for peeping around corners and doorways. This kind of gameplay techncially possible on modern D&D but in OSR games it's often vital.

Gold for XP: somewhat related to the above, in many of these games your XP will be determined by how much treasure you gather, casting players in the role and mindset of trasure hutners, grave robbers, etc.

Situations, not plots: This is more of a GM culture thing than an intrinsic feature of the games, but OSR campaigns will often eschew the long-form GM-authored Epic narrative that has become the norm since the late AD&D 2e era, in favor of a more sandbox-y "here's an initial situation, it's up to you what you do with it" style. This means that you probably won't be getting elaborate scenes plotted out sessions in advance to tie into your backstory and character arc, but it also means increased player agency, casting the GM in the role of less of a plot writer or narrator and more of a referee.

Like I said, these are not universal, and a lot of games that fall under the OSR umbrella will eschew some or most of these (it's very common for a lot of games to drop the gold-for-xp thing in favor of a different reawrd structure), but IMO they're a good baseline for understanding common features of the movement as a whole.

Of course, the OSR movement covers A LOT of different games, which I'd classify in the following categories by how much they deviate from their source of inspiration:

Retroclones are basically recreations of the ruleset of older D&D editions but without the D&D trademark, sometimes with a new coat of paint. E.g. OSRIC and For Gold and Glory are clones of AD&D (1e and 2e respectively); Whitebox and Fantastic Medieval Campaigns are recreations of the original 1974 white box D&D release; Old School Essentials, Basic Fantasy and Labyrinth Lord are clones of the 1981 B/X D&D set. Some of these recreate the original rules as-is, editing the text or reorganizing the information to be clearer but otherwise leaving the meachnics unchanged, while others will make slight rules changes to remove quirks that have come to be considered annoying in hindsight, some of them might mix and match features from different editions, but otherwise they're mostly straight up recreations of old-school D&D releases.

There are games that I would call "old-school compatible", that feature significant enough mechanical changes from old-school D&D to be considered a different game, but try to maintain mechanical compatibility with materials made for it. Games like The Black Hack, Knave, Macchiato Monsters, Dungeon Reavers, Whitehack, etc. play very differently from old-school D&D, and from each other, but you generally can grab any module made for any pre-3e D&D edition and run it with any of them with very little to no effort needed in conversion.

There's a third category that I wouldn't know how to call. Some people call then Nu-OSR or NSR (short for New School revolution) while a small minority of people argue that they aren't really part of the OSR movement but instead their own thing. I've personally taken to calling them "Old School Baroque". These are games that try to replicate different aspects of the tone and feel of old-school fantasy roleplaying games while borrowing few to none mechanics from them and not making any particular attempts to be mechanically compatible. Games like Into the Odd, Mörk Borg, Troika!, a dungeon game, FLEE, DURF, Songbirds, Mausritter, bastards, Cairn, Sledgehammer, and too many more to name. In my opinion this subsection of the OSR space is where it gets interesting, as there's so many different ways people try to recreate that old-school flavor with different mechanics.

(Of course, not everything fits neatly into these, e.g. I would consider stuff like Dungeon Crawl Classics to be somewhere inbetween category 1 and 2, and stuff like GloG or RELIC to be somewhere imbetween categories 2 and 3)

The OSR movement does have its ugly side, as it's to be expected by the fact that a huge part of the driving force behind it is nostalgia. Some people might be in it because it harkens back to a spirit of DIY and player agency that has been lost in traditional fantasy roleplaying games, but it's udneniable that some people are also in it because for them it harkens back to a time before "D&D went woke" when tabletop roleplaying was considered a hobby primarily for and by white men. That being said... generally those types of guys keep to themselves in their own little circlejerk, and it's pretty easy to find OSR spaces that are progressive and have a sinificant number of queer, POC, and marginalized creators.

[orphan-account123653]

𝕴﹕𝕾𝖎 𝖛𝖎𝖘 𝖕𝖆𝖈𝖊𝖒, 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖆 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖚𝖒

if you want peace, prepare for war.

cw: fem! reader, fyodor's probably ooc, reader goes to church, religious themes (it’s just Jesus tho)

word count: 2.0k

a/n: can you tell i got grammarly premium? please tell me you can tell that I got grammarly premium.

Staring into the oval mirror, you see your face streaked with dried tears. (The makeup the servants had applied hadn't done the best job of covering them) Your hair is styled into a bun, and your wedding dress is hanging on a rack in the corner of the large room. It's off the shoulder and dyed a pure white with gold and ruby accents. You stare at the dress from the corner of your eye, glaring at it contemptuously. 

You didn't want to marry him.

You didn't even know him.

You cover your face with your hands and start to sob once again, the carefully applied makeup becoming ruined further by your crying. You uncover your face but continue to hold your head in your hands. Your mind is running with so many thoughts. However, the one that weighed the most on your conscience was how you got into this mess.

The first time you saw him, you were going to buy sewing supplies from the tailor to teach your younger sister how to sew so she could fix her old teddy bear by herself. The manager had brought you the tools, and you grabbed the needed money out of your pocket. You placed the coins on the counter as the owner started to count the amount.

"Uh, miss? This amount of money isn't enough." The tailor had told you.

"Oh? I really thought it was, and that's all I have…"

You were about to take the money back and apologize when a man with black hair placed more than enough coins on the counter for you.

"I'll pay for her." The man said.

"Huh? No, there's no need to pay for me!"

You pause your sentence when you finally recognize who it is.

"Mr. Dostoyevsky?? What are you—"

"Don't mind me. I'm just here to pick up my new suit," Fyodor said, nodding to a fancy black suit in the back of the store. He turned back to the tailor. "It should be enough for my suit and this lady's items. Now go get our things, please."

The worker nodded and ran into the back of the store to grab his newly tailored suit. When he returned, he handed the respective items to both of you and accepted the money.

"Thanks for buying the sewing tools for me." You thanked Fyodor before he could walk off.

He nodded in acknowledgment of your thanks before walking away. 

The second time you saw him was Sunday, and you were walking to church alone. You weren't particularly religious, if at all. But it couldn't hurt to at least try to pray for your little sisters' health, could it? Isabella was getting increasingly sick, and neither you nor your mother knew what was wrong. You were too poor to afford a doctor, so all you could do was sit and wait. 

As you walked towards the church alone on that quiet Sunday, your footsteps echoed against the sidewalk as you noticed a figure leaning against the fence bordering the front of the church.

His silhouette cast a shadow that had seemed to sway with the soft wind. As you walked closer, you finally recognized him.

Him again? Seriously?

He looked up as you approached, his violet eyes softening ever so slightly as a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The quiet moment between you was interrupted by the loud ringing of church bells, marking the start of another Sunday service. You hesitated, unsure whether to acknowledge him or walk inside the building without speaking to him.

"Hello," he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that did nothing to ease the uncertainty in your heart.

The last time you ran into him, you had just bought three loaves of bread and were walking back home when you bumped into Fyodor again. You had tumbled to the ground along with your bread. 

It was getting quite odd at how many times you two had met, almost like it was on purpose. 

Your eyes widened as you blabbered words that sounded like they were trying to be an apology, but it wasn't working well. 

Fyodor let out a small chuckle as he bent down slightly, lending his hand toward you to help you. You froze momentarily before graciously taking his hand as he pulled you up.

"We must stop meeting like this."

"Indeed," you replied nervously, the loaves of bread scattered around you. You looked around at the mess, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Would you like me to buy you some new bread? I don't think you would find eating dirty bread delightful."

"Oh– It's alright, I'm sure I'll manage." You reassured him.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." You bent down to pick up the loaves of bread. You could just wash the dirt off, probably.

You immediately fled the scene after picking up your food. You quickly opened your house door and found your younger sister lying in bed. You genuinely wished you could get a doctor for her. But you can barely afford bread.

You bent down next to the bed, gently shaking your sister awake. After a while of shaking, her eyes finally opened.

"You're back?" She asked.

"Buying bread doesn't take much time."

"It feels like it does." She retorted, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I know," you sigh. Your little sister can be pretty impatient sometimes. "Where's mother?"

"I don't know. I was asleep when she left." 

You shrugged before returning to place the bread basket on the table.

"She'll come back soon, I know it." Your sister said.

Your conversation is interrupted by a loud knock at your door. You stand back up and head to open the door. Standing there is a mailman.

"I have a letter for [Name] [Last Name]. Is she here?"

"You're speaking to her."

"Oh, well then, here you are." The postman hands you a letter and walks off. 

You close the door and stare at the envelope. In the middle is the crest of the Dostoyevsky family.

You walk back towards your sister, who is sitting in bed. You sit at the foot of her bed.

"What does the letter say?" She asks curiously.

"I'm not sure. I haven't read it yet." You respond to her.

"Well, then read it!"

You ripped open the envelope and started to read the letter.

Dear Ms. [Last Name],

With the quill in my hand and the ink flowing from the depths of my heart, I must express how you have attracted me with your beauty despite your poverty. You have truly captivated me.

I was enchanted by the aura radiating from your soul when we met in the tailors' shop. 

Though fate has seen fit to place us on entirely separate paths—you, a child of the fields, and I, a child of noble birth—I am compelled to defy the standards society has set for us. Even though I had only met you three times before writing this letter, you are the one with whom I wish to share my life's journey.

Therefore, if you allow me, permit me to pledge myself to you in the blessed bond of marriage. Together, we shall travel the trials of life, hand in hand, as equals in love's timeless embrace.

My dear, I beg you to consider this proposal with an open heart and a willing spirit. For in your acceptance lies the promise of a future bright with the shine of my utter devotion to you.

With all the sincerity my soul can allow,

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

"Wow, a rich person wants to marry you?" Isabella clasped her hands together as she fixed her posture, becoming more interested by the second.

"This must be a joke– but if it has the official Dostoyevsky family crest, then it should be real."

"Will you accept?" Your sister asks.

"It'd be in my best interest, but I'll ask my mother and see what she thinks." You said as you stood up, "But until I can speak with her, you should go back to sleep. It's way too past your bedtime anyway." 

"Aw man, but I wanna stay up with you!" Isabella complains.

"Fine, but don't come complaining to me when you're all crabby in the morning."

"Fineee…"

"Thank you, Isabella." You thank her and sit up from her bed.

"Mhm."

After tucking Isabella into bed, you walked to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. While you were making it, your mother walked into the house.

"How was your visit to uncle's?" You asked her. She was always at his house. Your uncle had always been better off than your mother. So she always hung around his home, probably because it made her feel richer.

"It was fine. Is Isabella doing any better?" She eyed the dusty bread on the table as you poured the tea.

"She's doing just as fine as yesterday."

"Ah, well, I'll be heading straight for bed. I've had a long day." Your mother yawned and stretched her arms,

"Wait! There's something I need to ask you."

"Yes?" Your mother asked, "What is it?"

"Read this letter I've received. I need your opinion."

You hand your mother the letter you have gotten. She scanned it, and when she finished, she set it down and sighed.

"You're going to marry him. It's the best choice." She said bluntly.

"But– I don't love him. I've only met him three times?"

"I doubt he cares much if you love him. Besides, think about Isabella. You can get her a proper doctor if you marry him. The Dostoyevsky family has lots of money, you know." Your mother explained.

“Yeah… I know…”

"So you'll marry him?" She asked.

"Yes, mother." You looked at the ground solemnly as you confirmed her question

"That's good. I'll get you paper and a quill. I want your response by tomorrow morning."

"Alright."

You're brought back to the present when one of the servants knocks on your door. "Ms. [Last Name], are you ready for the wedding?"

Oh shit, while you were busy having flashbacks and a mini-mental breakdown, you had completely forgotten about the thing that had caused you such stress!

"Uhm– I'll be out in a minute!"

You hurriedly put on the dress and fixed your makeup to the best of your (limited) ability. Then you opened the door and stepped out.

"You look beautiful. Are you ready?"

"I guess…"

You put on the heels and walk out of the room. You try to distract yourself by looking at the glass windows as you walk down the long hall toward what you consider to be an execution. The stained glass depicts different imagery on each piece.

Jesus, with his lamb,

Jesus, with his sacred heart, 

Jesus, on the cross,

Yeah, there's definitely a pattern.

You open the wooden doors at the end of the hall and walk towards the carriage outside. Once inside, the carriage begins its way to the church.

Your mother is waiting in front of the doors leading into the venue. She's holding your veil and a little piece of paper containing the vows you wrote down at the last minute.

"Remember to smile and be polite," your mother says as she fits the veil onto your head.

"I will."

In the grand venue of the church, the air was thick with anticipation as guests dressed in their finest clothing gathered to watch firsthand the marriage between two mismatched souls. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the eldest son of the respected Dostoyevsky family, stands at the altar, waiting for you to come down the aisle.  

The grand piano filled the luxurious room as the ceremony started, drowning out the guests' gossip. The marriage between you and Fyodor was initially unknown; most guests only knew you were getting married once the invite was sent to them. Everyone knew how proud Fyodor was of his heritage, so why would he marry someone lower class? 

As the vows were exchanged by the two of you, the weight of your future settled upon you like a suffocating cloud. Fyodor could feel your hands trembling as he slid the ring onto your finger. 

His voice was barely above a whisper as he pledged his forever undying loyalty to you. 

However, for you, this marriage was only an opportunity to secure a place amongst the elite despite your origins.

[sena-seastar]

The Dragon's Gold

Chapter Ten

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Aerys Reyne (male oc)

Summary: Aerys Reyne, son of Naerys Targaryen, the second-born daughter of King Viserys and Queen Aemma, has been best friends with Aegon since childhood. As boys, they had been inseparable. Many said that it reminded them of the early days of King Jaehaerys reign. When the princes Aemon and Baelon were still children. Wherever one boy was, it wasn't long before the other came running behind him. That was until forbidden desires of the heart forced a wedge between them. After the death of his grandsire, King Viserys, Aerys finds himself torn between two sides: stand by his oldest friend or stand by the only mother he has ever known.

Warning: angst, mentions of Jaehaerys, child loss, grief

a/n: Aerys kinda makes a new friend. Aegon isn't used to people being nice to him. No beta, so I apologize for grammar and spelling mistakes. Also, if anyone wishes to be tagged in future updates, just let me know!

Aerys

The sound of glass shattering on the stone floor woke Aerys, forcing him to sit upright. A thin layer of sweat covered his skin, and his heart hammered away in his chest. His eyes scanned the room for potential dangers. During his search, they fell upon a woman standing beside the bathtub in his chamber. It was the maid—the one in charge of delivering his food.

“I apologize, m’lord,” she bowed her head.

Aerys nodded, watching quietly as she bent down to pick up the shards of what he assumed had once been a flagon. She was a short, large woman with dark eyes, limp brown hair, and an ample bosom. 

“I’ve prepared you a bath,” she said, dropping the shards into a brown bucket, “Though you’ll have to wait for it to cool down a bit.”

Aerys said nothing. He looked down at his hands resting on the soft wool blanket covering his lap. So, he was not going mad. Someone had covered him up. He turned his head upward, looking to the window. It appeared to be late in the afternoon. The events of last night suddenly came back to him. Unconsciously, he reached a hand up to touch his throat. He flinched; the skin of his throat was tender and sore. 

Aerys stood up, letting the blanket fall to the floor. He moved over to the new mirror in the corner of his room. It had to be replaced, as he had shattered the first one after being told of Luke’s death. He lifted his hair out of the way, observing the red marks that covered his throat. The bruising was only in the beginning stages. But if he looked hard enough, he believed he could make out the shape of Aegon’s hands. 

“Should I fetch the maester?” The maid asked timidly.

“No,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

Aerys dropped his hair, letting it cover the red marks as best as it could. He turned around, eyes focusing on the steam rising from the bath. Aerys walked forward, shedding his clothes along the way. The maid released a short gasp and quickly averted her gaze. Aerys paid her no mind, tossing his clothes to the ground. He could smell the fragrant oils that had been placed in the water.

“It’s too hot, m’lord!” The woman warned.

Aerys ignored her words, lowering himself into the scalding hot water. He did not cry out or flinch. He enjoyed the heat against his skin. It made him feel clean, pure. Though he knew he was far from it. Aerys pulled his knees to his chest, watching the steam rise around him. Something had happened, something terrible. However, he did not know what. The look in Aegon’s eyes as he had his hands wrapped around Aerys’ throat haunted him. There was anger and fury, yes, but there was something else, something more. A deep, painful look of despair, of loss. Something that Aerys was not unfamiliar with.

“What has happened?” He asked the maid.

The woman approached slowly, sitting on a stool beside the tub.

“The prince Jaehaerys has been slain,” she answered woefully.

His eyes widened, and water splashed onto the floor as he quickly turned to look at her. He stared into her eyes, desperately searching for some indication of a lie, but there was none. The woman spoke the truth.

“And Jaehaera? Helaena?” Aerys asked hurriedly. Panic filled his chest, and he found it getting increasingly difficult for him to breathe.

“They live.”

A small wave of relief washed over him. Aerys nodded, turning back around. He dropped his head to stare at the water around him. 

“How did it happen?”

“Assassins snuck into the castle. The boy was...,” she paused, her voice cracking, “beheaded in his bed.”

Aerys closed his eyes, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. Jaehaerys is dead. Aegon’s words rang loudly in his ears. Did you have something to do with this?! Did you know?! They were words spoken in anger- in grief, but they still felt like a knife stabbing at his heart. Surely, Aegon did not believe Aerys would take part in such an egregious act. To strike down an innocent child in their bed was cowardice. It was an act that only the basest of villains would commit. 

“They say it was the Princess Rhaenyra who sent them. In retribution for her son.”

Aerys shook his head. No, he could not—would not believe that Nyra was behind this or that she had even known of it. She was a mother herself, one who had just lost a son. He could not imagine the woman would want to inflict that same pain on anyone, especially Helaena. Nyra had never been close to her siblings, but she held no ill will against them, least of all Helaena. If this was indeed an act of retribution for Luke, why go after Jaehaerys? The boy played no part in what his uncle had done. Aerys doubted the boy even knew of Luke’s existence. It is a lie. It has to be. No, someone else was responsible for this treachery. To butcher a child in their bed like some kind of animal... that was a different kind of brutality. One that Aerys could not even begin to fathom.

Tears fell from his eyes, dripping into the water. The boy's death saddened him, yes, but he worried more for the boy's parents. He worried for the boy’s mother, who would never be able to see or hold her firstborn child again. He worried for the boy’s father, who would seek revenge for the son stolen from him. He worried for the boy’s twin sister, Jaehaera, who would be forced to grow up without her other half at her side. If she even made it to adulthood, that is. War was imminent. Luke and Jaehaerys were the first to die but would not be the last. Many innocents will meet their ends, both low and high-born. 

Aerys flinched as water poured down his back, droplets trickling from his long tendrils into the bath.

“I’m sorry m’lord. I thought you would want help washing your hair.” The woman apologized, her voice quivering slightly.

“It’s fine. Continue,” Aerys sniffled, wiping his eyes.

“Yes, m’lord.” The woman whispered, continuing her work.

Aerys leaned his head back, allowing her to pour water over the top of his head. She hummed absentmindedly as she threaded her fingers through his hair. Aerys sat quietly. He closed his eyes, trying to relax. His body ached all over. No doubt the results of sleeping on the bare stone floor. His stomach clenched almost painfully and released a rather loud growl. Aerys felt the heat rising on his face.

“Will you fetch me something to eat?” He asked timorously.

The woman stopped, a small smile spread across her round face.

“Of course, m’lord.”

Aerys nodded, listening as she left the room. He waited until the door locked behind her before laying back in the tub. He took a quick breath before sinking into the water, allowing it to submerge his head completely.

–

Aerys nibbled on the bread in his hands while the maid, whose name he discovered was Wylla, brushed his hair. He also found that the woman had a fondness for talking. Aerys had only asked which region of the realm she had come from, and now he knew that she had a brother who herds goats in the Riverlands, a sister whose husband owns an inn in the Reach, and apparently, they are descendants of some long-vanished king of the First Men.

He had stayed silent as she droned on and on, only letting out the occasional hum to let her know he was still listening. It was better than being trapped alone within the confines of his mind. The skin of his neck was sore; even the slightest touch made him cringe. Wylla had said the bruise was darkening already, with slight purple hues appearing with the red.

His mind drifted to Agana. The man missed her deeply. He missed the warmth of her scales on his skin, the wind blowing through his hair as they flew through the skies, and most of all, he missed the strength she gave him, the courage she made him feel. He needed that courage now more than ever.

“Your grace,” Wylla gasped.

Aerys turned his head, watching as Wylla bowed before the dowager queen. Alicent nodded, dismissing the maid. Wylla took the hint, quickly leaving the room. A white cloak that Aerys did not recognize closed the door behind her. Leaving him alone with the dowager queen. Alicent stood a few feet away, looking as regal as ever. She stared at him, toying with the skin around her fingernails. Aerys sighed before standing, turning around so they were face to face.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady Alicent.”

“Thank you, Aerys,” she spoke quietly, a slight quiver in her voice.

He was being sincere. The woman had just lost a grandchild. He could not imagine that was an easy pain to bear. She cleared her throat, pushing her shoulders back to appear taller.

“But my grief is not the reason I am here.”

Aerys scrunched his brows, tilting his head slightly to the side. It took only a moment before the meaning of her words dawned on him.

“How is he?”

“Angry,” she sighed, “eager for vengeance.”

“And Helaena?” He asked.

The woman froze, her eyes staring at him. He watched as they welled with tears. Her bottom lip trembled as she let out a shaky breath. The woman cleared her throat, quickly hardening her face. It saddened him to see how quickly she internalized her pain. How quickly she buried it in her heart to put on the brave face that was expected of her. 

“She’s alive.” She answered. 

The mixture of relief and sorrow in her voice was not lost on him. Helaena was alive but would now have to live with the turmoil of losing a child, her first child. She would bear that pain- that loss for the rest of her life. Would that truly be a life worth living?

“What is it that you need from me?” Aerys asked.

The woman took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling. She clasped her hands together and placed them in front of her—an array of conflicting emotions crossed over her glossy eyes. She averted her gaze, lowering her head slightly.

“He needs you,” she answered, with a slightly reluctant tone. “To offer him the solace I cannot.”

Aerys turned away from her. He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. His lips quivered, and his face contorted as he tried to fight back his tears. The skin of his neck grew hot as he remembered Aegon’s hands around his throat. He did not think Aegon truly meant to hurt him. It was an act done in haste while processing the death of his son. He could not blame him for it. Aerys took a deep breath, spinning back around to face the woman. She stared at him, her eyes trying to gauge his answer. He gave a simple nod.

“Ser Thorne shall escort you to the king,” she said before leaving the room.

The white cloak he did not recognize, Ser Thorne stood at the door. Aerys quickly put on his boots before walking to meet the man. He slowly stepped into the hall. His eyes searched the hall as if this were some sort of trap. Ser Thorne slammed the door shut and began walking. Aerys quickly followed. The castle was dark and quiet. Aerys noted that there were more guards than usual. Looking around in confusion, he realized Ser Thorne was leading him to his grandsire’s bedchamber. However, he quickly realized the reason for this. They crowned Aegon king. Where else would he be besides the king's apartments? Ser Thorne held up a hand, signaling Aerys to stop. 

Dread and worry crept into his mind as he realized only a wooden door kept him and Aegon separate. Ser Throne pushed open the door, standing to the side so that Aerys could pass him. Aerys nodded his head as he did so. He watched as the knight closed the door behind him. 

Heartwrenching cries pull Aerys away from his thoughts. Painful sobs and even more painful-sounding hiccups echo in the air. The sound broke his heart. He turns around, searching for Aegon. He finds the man hunched over in a chair, fiddling with his ring before the hearth. A tightness filled his chest like there was a hand squeezing his heart. Aerys was familiar with grief, but the grief of losing a child was another matter entirely. Something he had no experience with. It was something he never wanted to experience. He did not think he would be able to survive such a loss.

Lost in his grief, Aegon seemed utterly unaware of his presence. Aerys walked over to the man’s side. He raised his hand, hovering it over Aegon’s shoulder. Perhaps this was a mistake. Their last encounter was not a positive one. Would Aegon even want to see him? Would he want his comfort? Or would his presence merely anger him?

Aegon’s body jerked with each painful gasp that escaped his throat. His head hung low, concealing his face. Aerys took a deep breath, placing a firm hand on Aegon’s shoulder. He was willing to risk facing the man’s wrath. If Aegon wanted to scream at or hurt him, Aerys would let him. Whatever Aegon wanted from him, Aerys would provide it.

Alarmed, Aegon turns his head upwards to find the intruder. His eyes are red and puffy, but he still tries his best to look fierce. Perhaps he was afraid someone had come for his head next. When he realized it was none other than Aerys, his eyes softened. His face crumpled, and he burst into inconsolable tears. Aegon’s hands grabbed Aerys by the hips, pulling him closer. Aerys did not fight or cry out when Aegon’s fingers dug painfully into his skin. Aegon buried his face into Aerys’ clothed stomach, howling like a wounded animal. Aerys used one hand to thread his fingers through Aegon’s hair. The other, he used to rub the man’s back.

“My boy,” Aegon cried, “they killed my boy!”

Aerys dropped his head, closing his eyes. He bit his bottom lip to stop himself from crying. He needed to be strong for Aegon. The man needed someone to lean on now, more than ever. 

“I saw,” Aegon gasped. “I-I saw him. I h-held his little-little body,” he stammered between sobs. 

Aerys rubbed Aegon’s back, trying to soothe him. The man only cried harder. Aerys could feel his tunic clinging to his skin. The result of Aegon’s tears, though Aerys did not mind it. 

“I’m so sorry, Aegon...” Aerys whispered through tears.

Aegon shook his head. Aerys stumbled as the man suddenly pushed him away. He watched Aegon pace the room back and forth, shaking his head and muttering. 

“Aegon,” Aerys called, trying to catch his attention.

“They took his head,” Aegon whimpered. “They took his fucking head!” He shouted, grabbing a nearby goblet and throwing the glass with all his might.

Aerys flinched as the glass shattered against the wall. He watched helplessly as Aegon slumped to his knees, crying in his hands. Aerys kneeled beside him, pulling the man into his arms. Aegon buried his face in Aerys’ shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. Aerys pressed a soft kiss to Aegon’s hair. One hand held the back of Aegon’s neck while the other rested on his back. No words were spoken as they cried and clung to each other for dear life.

Aerys felt Aegon press wet kisses to the side of his neck. He winced; the bruises on his neck pained him. Aegon pulled away, his eyes observing the bruising on Aerys’ neck.

“I hurt you,” he whimpered, his face contorting in anguish.

“Shh,” Aerys shook his head, “I’ll be fine.”

Aerys pulled him closer, resting their heads together. Aegon leaned forward, pressing their lips together. Aerys did not stop him. The kisses are rough and desperate. Aerys feels a hand run down his body, cupping his clothed cock. He pulls back, grabs the hand, and pushes it away. Aegon whimpers, trying to capture Aerys’ lip again, but Aerys shakes his head.

“Just let me hold you,” he says softly.

Aegon stills; his violet eyes are unsure, and he looks almost afraid. Aerys sits on the floor, stretching out his legs. Hesitantly, Aegon lays down, resting his head on Aerys’ lap. He flinches when Aerys lifts his hand but relaxes when he feels Aerys run his fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. Aerys continues this even after Aegon falls asleep. His eyes trailed over every inch of Aegon’s face, listening to his friend's soft snores. His back ached from sitting like this, but he did not care. Whatever Aegon needed from him at that moment, he would provide it.

Tags: @saicherry, @willow-red, @sadpuffpuff, @teamavatar13,

[kalmiaphlox]

Damn, this is what it feels like to be you?

AO3 Link / Masterlist

Part 1 / Part 3

Guide Me As You Do

Twisting his head up to rest his chin on her chest, Astarion smiles big and wide. Hircine is immediately suspicious, red eyes narrowed to slits, awaiting whatever he's about to say. “My love, can I play with my—yourself?” “Clarify.”

Pairing: Astarion x Named Female Tav (Hircine)

WC: 6.5k

Main Tags: Body Swap, Humor, Fluff, Smut, Body Worship, Guided Masturbation, Massages, Little Edging, and stretching because its good for the body.

A/N: Don't walk on people's back. it really isn't good for the spine.

A big thank you to @amoremagnificentbastard for your kind words on this chapter 🥰

Tag list: @zozoparsnips

Maybe being alive is the worst thing someone can be. 

If Astarion never uses the toilet again, it will still be too soon. Ugh, he feels so dirty—tainted. 

Still stuck in Hircine’s body, still subject to her body's needs, he laments his state. 

He furiously scrubs his slim body down in the bath, leaving red marks where he might have been a touch too rough and maybe taking too long to thoroughly inspect the wonderful tits now attached to his chest. Any slight movement has them swaying and the way they squeeze and conform around every touch or surface has his core quivering for something. It's so strange, the need to be filled instead of to fill. He wants so badly to slide his fingers into this heat, to know the feeling of being inside himself like that, but Hircine might not like him doing that to her body. 

So, fondling his breasts will have to do for now. It's not easy turning Hircine into a whimpering mess that begs for his cock even on their best, most lustful days when she's so tired, so overworked, and then she said she isn't attracted to her own body which certainly puts a damper on getting hot and heavy. Sex might be off the table, and while it's unfortunate to not experience such a once in a lifetime opportunity, they will be just fine without. 

He'll take this chance instead to learn what feels good in Hircine’s body so he can apply that when—not if—they return back to themselves.

Newly refreshed, Astarion towels off, but a shocking sight catches his eye.

My—no, Hircine’s reflection!

How did he not even think of the opportunity mirrors provide now?!

Trotting up to the mirror, Astarion gapes in awe at having something shown back at him, even if it isn’t exactly what he wants to see. Hircine is so lucky that he loves this beautiful face, so staring at it in adoration for much too long is no skin off his back…

Oh, he can make those jokes.

His pretty drow wife stares back at him now. Her soft, light gray skin with those rosy undertones that makes his mouth water from how inviting it is, is lit wonderfully in the bathroom candlelight, and the shiny slate and silver streaked hair long, silky and… grabbable. He loves the way her head will bend back when he takes a fistful of those locks to plant a kiss upon her lips or to sink his fangs into the sensual curve of her neck. 

Lavender eyes with a gold ring around the pupils reflect back into his gaze, catching the light perfectly. He can’t believe he ever thought them strange, and now the glow that shines so bright in the dark is always something he searches for in their quiet moments of peace in bed or on the den couch. Lavender and gold, a much better combination than the maroon that infests nearly every corner of their lives. 

Her straight, high-born nose, and her lovely plump mouth, unfortunately stained with a plum colored lipstick. He understands why she hides her natural lip color under it, but Astarion wants nothing more than to see her ghostly pale lips at all times. 

Maybe one day.

Thinking of ghostly pale, he draws his fingers down the smooth skin of her neck until he meets the ridiculously plush swell of a breast, watching as it indents with his touch. Beautiful, truly. He cups the left breast, Belbol as he’s named such a gift, and then moves on to the right one, Iiyola, his treasure. The areolas and nipples are the same bone white of her lips, with the slightest flush of pink beneath the surface. Fuck, he loves sucking on these.

Looking down, Astarion considers, could I? Just for a moment, see how it feels for him to taste his own tits… Hircine does it for him when asked, so why can't he?

Good gods, is he horny. He shakes the thought from his mind, freeing himself from the lust that threatens to overtake him.

With a fluffy, cotton robe wrapped around his body, he returns to the bedroom, throwing open Hircine’s closet to dig out a pair of panties from a dresser that he slides on quickly. 

I would much rather be naked, but I'm trying to be respectful.

Hircine stands by the fireplace, running a finger along the marble mantle. She turns, quirking an eyebrow at his appearance. “Did you bathe?”

“Yes,” he says, tightlipped, wrapping his arms around himself for some comfort.

“Wha-What happened? I thought you only needed to pee?”

He claps his hands over his ears. “Don't talk about it! It was awful and everything is ruined!”

The whole ordeal was traumatic. Astarion very badly wants to return to his vampire self. Gods, the grass really isn't greener on the other side. 

Taking pity on him, though he can absolutely see the smile she's smothering, Hircine holds out her arms, beckoning him to her. Rushing to melt into her embrace, he's not surprised to find why she likes to be held by him so much, strong arms supporting his thin frame, easily resting her chin on the top of his head so he's swallowed in solace.

What he does not enjoy is the distinct lack of heartbeat from the chest he's resting his ear against, but Hircine, his perfect girl, she never complains about such things.

Hmm, what else is his perfect girl good at? 

Oh, he knows.

Twisting his head up to rest his chin on her chest, Astarion smiles big and wide. Hircine is immediately suspicious, red eyes narrowed to slits, awaiting whatever he's about to say. “My love, can I play with my—yourself?”

“Clarify.”

“You’re so bendy. I want to try it out, you know, like when you lay on the floor in the splits or touch your toes to your head.”

“Ah, I see. Go wild, Husband.”

He purrs into her chest, “I love when you call me ‘husband’ in my voice.”

“You are so weird, Husband,” she says as a kiss is pressed to his forehead, “Off you go. Be flexible or whatever.”

Letting out a girlish shriek that they are both alarmed by, Astarion slides the lounge chair against the wall to give himself some space before settling down cross legged on the rug. Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself, now at a loss for what to do next. “So, what do I do?”

Hircine chuckles, a nice deep rumble that he likes. “I’d recommend some stretching so you don’t tear a muscle… Eugh, that’s the worst.” She sits down across from him, straightening her now much longer legs along the floor and Astarion copies the movement. “This is a perfect opportunity because I don’t think you stretch this poor body near enough.

“Now, follow my lead, Husband, but even if you feel like you can go further in your stretches, don’t strain yourself.” One leg is kept straight as the other is bent in, placing her foot against the first leg’s inner thigh. “Try not to arch your back, stay straight and lean forward to touch your toes. You should be able to wrap your hands around your foot.”

Following her verbal instructions and visual cues, Astarion stretches as she does, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. His stomach and chest are pressed against his thigh which isn’t so bad, though he’d prefer them pressed against his actual body.

She demonstrates some more stretches that they perform dutifully before Hircine gives him the go ahead to do as he pleases without wrecking her—his body.

The goal is the splits.

Returning to his feet, Astarion moves off the rug, letting his feet slip slowly out from under him sideways on the polished wood floor. He’s seen Hircine do this a thousand times, she’s always slow and steady with it. Eventually his groin meets the floor, having lowered himself all the way down. Gods, what fun! Hircine is still stretching every single muscle in her body, and Astarion clears his throat to get her attention, smiling deviously. “When we switch back, I am begging you to slide down like this onto my lap, preferably naked.”

She rolls those glinting red eyes, turning over on her side away from him to continue what she was doing in peace, the broad slopes of her back now concealing her completely.

Leaning forward so his stomach presses against the ground, he adjusts his legs out behind him, curling them up and arching his back upwards. 

And just like that, his toes are touching the top of his head.

He giggles quietly to himself, giddy at the strangeness of it. “Maybe we should start stretching together. I want to be able to do this.”

“Honestly, I expected you to be in much worse condition. If we stick to a good schedule, I bet you could be bent in half before the year is over.”

“Only if I get to bend you in half afterwards, my love~” He sings in the nice lilting tone of her voice. 

“Hmmm…” Is her only response. 

Playing around a little longer, Astarion twists this way and that, even doing what she calls a back bend with his forearms and elbows laid flat on the ground. The soreness that's plagued his body settles into a dull ache after all these tests of her flexibility.

Hircine is tense all the time. He can easily recall occasions where he’s rubbed a hand along her shoulders and remarked on the tenseness there. The body must feel so sore since Astarion is more loose…

Has he ever given Hircine a massage? Perhaps not, but now is a good opportunity to try so they can learn what the other wants.

“Pet?” He calls.

Hircine stops rolling her head around on her neck to look at him. “Yes?”

“Care for a massage? I do you, you do me?”

“Oh, that sounds nice.” Getting to her feet, Hircine points to their bed. “Does that work?”

“Yes, love. You lay down first.” He waits at the edge of the bed while she climbs up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Actually, uhm—”

“What?” She asks.

He wets his plush lips. “Can you take the clothes off? I need to see myself naked, please!” Voice morphing into a beg, the kind she uses when she wants him to come on her face, the deviant.

Hircine sighs, the sound one he is all too familiar with from himself. 

Gods, this whole experience is strange. 

Always one to give in though, Hircine begins undressing, but that's not what he wants. Rushing forward, Astarion slaps her hands away and starts unfastening each button on his own. 

“You just wanted to feel yourself up, didn't you, Husband?” She says, easily letting him do all the work.

“Guilty as charged, my love~” Ah, the sing-songy tone is very fun. His real voice just doesn't hold those notes as smoothly. 

The shirt is quickly shucked off, baring the smooth planes of his—now Hircine's chest to him. 

Oh, he could just run his tongue over every part of that body. The chiseled pectoral muscles, flat abdominals, those tight pink nipples… He drags the tip of his fingers along every bit, the silky soft feel of his real skin a delight for the senses, making sure to circle the nipples the way Hircine likes and—

Nothing, of course. She stares at him in her usual expectant way. 

Astarion pouts. “Are you not turned on because I'm you or because I'm a woman, now?”

“Both.” Not even a speck of hesitation. 

“Eugh,” How did he end up with a misandrist that is only physically attracted to men? “What if I turned into a man?”

Those glimmering red eyes flick around the room before closing with a groan of disgust. “Then you'd look like my brother and that's even worse.”

Ah, right. 

“Fine.” He sinks into her firm chest, enjoying how it stands strong against his weight. “Hold me tight, please.”

In an instant, Hircine’s arms wrap around him, squeezing Astarion until his breath is forcefully pushed from his lungs in a grunt, and then the pressure is lessened with an “Oops, sorry,” muttered into his hair.

Is he really that strong? 

Alright, that’s enough. Astarion pulls away, holding Hircine at arms length. “Still not naked enough.”

If her pretty claret eyes could roll all the way into the back of her head, they absolutely would. 

He drops to his knees, just the same as Hircine has many nights before this, always ready to please. They can roleplay for a bit, not that it will amount to anything when Hircine won’t get into the mood. More buttons are undone, pants pulled down, and all that’s left is the underwear. Nothing special, of course, because he wasn’t expecting to be eye level with his cock anytime soon—or ever.

A glance up at Hircine, who looks a mix of bored and intrigued, if such a thing is possible. Well, it’s Hircine, so yes, it is. “Are you about to be weird?” She asks.

“Just let me do this, Hircine. Don’t say anything.” It’s a desperate plea.

“Alright. Can I lay down so you can do… whatever it is you’re about to do?”

“Yes.” He springs to his feet, catching her off guard when he shoves against sturdy chest, sending her back onto their cozy bed. The pants are ripped off completely, tossed somewhere far away before Astarion crawls up, hands on her thighs. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about, hmm?” Hircine covers her handsome face with her hands in response. 

Tsk, shy thing. 

Straddling her pale thighs, Astarion bites his lip, taking a deep breath to steady himself as his hummingbird heart hammers away at an alarming pace. The sound has always been so delightful for him, but the feel is something else entirely, not quite painful but also a little unnatural—to him at least, this is normal for his lovely Hircine if all their nights together is anything to go by.

Index fingers feather around the edge of his underwear, teasing, ready to enter at any moment. 

It’s time. He has to see it as it’s meant to be seen.

Both fingers hook under the fabric, tugging each side down to slowly and delicately reveal the hidden treasure underneath. 

For the most part, it’s the same as it's always been, just from a slightly different angle. A cock with testicles. Too bad he can’t get it hard, that’s really what he wants to see. No matter, Astarion can still take a gander. Lifting his flaccid penis, he wraps a hand around it, testing the weight within this body’s smaller grasp. The foreskin is pulled back, exposing the glans. 

Is his mouth watering? 

Astarion ignores that and the heat pooling between his legs currently. It will do him no good to want his body so badly when the one inside it won’t respond well to any advances. 

Gods, they can’t turn back to their bodies soon enough. He needs to be plunging this cock into Hircine's tight cunt now.

He looks up, an arm is thrown over her eyes while he handles his own cock with care. Different bodies be damned, this cock is all his. 

“How does it feel?” He asks in a raspy whisper, his mouth so dry from hanging open as he fights with the urge to do something he probably shouldn’t.

Hircine shrugs, indifferent. He swallows down a sigh. He loves his wife as she is.

Dropping his cock in defeat, Astarion slips the underwear the rest of the way off and—

Maybe just a little smell… He brings them to his face and inhales. The underwear also gets scented with his cologne, not that Hircine cares when she isn't all that turned on by smells the way Astarion is. Rosemary, bergamot, brandy and a touch of undeath. Not surprising.

He sighs again and tosses them into the void with the pants.

Massage time. 

Propping herself up on elbows, Hircine gives him the saddest, wettest eyes he's ever seen. Is that what he looks like when he's pleading? No wonder his poor wife bends over backwards for him—literally.

“I'm sorry, Husband. I am trying, it's just—”

Astarion halts her words with his finger pressed to her lips. “Hush, pet. There is no need to apologize for not liking something. If you aren't into it, then you aren't into it. I would never begrudge you that. Now, roll over so I can sink my hands into those muscles.” 

Always a good listener, Hircine lays face down on the bed with arms crossed under her head for some support. Straddling her hips, which are surprisingly wide comparatively to the body he’s in now—thank the gods Hircine is so flexible—Astarion runs his hands over the rippling muscles in her back. Oh, these are nice. 

The hellish, scar-tissue ‘poem’ etched into his skin is promptly ignored. He's focusing on the good today, not the bad. 

He kneads his small hands into her upper shoulders, trying to press firmly into them until she shows any discomfort, but nothing comes. “How is it?” He asks.

“A little like nothing, honestly… Am I really so weak?”  

Well, that’s disappointing. “I’ve never thought you strong, but I didn’t realize it was this bad. What should I do then? I want you to feel good.”

Lifting her head, Hircine considers what to do. “How about you walk on my back? I bet the weight would feel nice.”

“Gods, my love and her big brain… or is it my brain?” She ‘tuts’ at him as Astarion gets to his feet, balancing carefully atop her back. Even though he’s now used to her more… top-heaviness, what with the mass of hair and her ample bust, balance isn’t something he’s mastered yet, so he steadies himself on a poster of their bed frame. He plants his feet along her shoulder blades. “Is it actually alright to do this to your back?”

“I don’t know—” She groans in his own lustful voice and Astarion’s knees might give out from the sound. Why doesn’t it sound like that to his actual ears? “Ooh, but it feels so good…” If he hadn’t put on panties, slick was going to be dripping from his legs by the end of this. 

He walks up and down Hircine’s broad back, putting attentive focus onto spots that get satisfied moans and groans out of her. The feeling is so strange, just digging his heels and toes into someone’s back instead of using hands as a massage… Maybe they’ll have to do this more often if the noises are anything to go by. 

It’s really hot. This whole thing is so hot. Is he really so attracted to himself or could this possibly be some leftover remains from Hircine’s body? He doesn’t care, Astarion is loving it.

The thighs are a little too slim to fully walk on, so Astarion works a foot and heel into a thigh one at a time, slowly moving up to the real prize.

That beautiful ass. 

It’s perfect. Gods, he hasn’t—Has he even seen it outside of the sides when he twists around best he can? 

Hircine is more into his back from how her hands roam up and down the curves of muscle, trailing along his shoulder blades and spine to the dimples in the small of his back. 

Astarion much prefers the tits and arse, of Hircine and of himself, apparently. 

Settling down to his knees, Astarion roughly pinches one arsecheek and Hircine jolts, peeking over her shoulder with a sharp glare. A wide smile strains his face, probably because Hircine rarely smiles, and he takes handfuls of each of her cheeks, rolling, kneading and squeezing them around. 

He leans down and bites one right in the center—hard enough to leave teeth marks.

Hircine yelps, swatting at Astarion. “Alright, enough, you wild animal.”

“Hircine, my darling love, my sweet pet, my perfect girl,” he begs in her adorable whiney voice, “I completely understand that you aren’t able to… get it up, but can I find some release here? I-I need something, I feel like I’m melting. It’s too much.” Astarion is squeezing his thighs together, anything to help the burning within.

It does not help.

Those deep pools of ruby look over his figure, probably finding it all much too desperate. Hircine chews at a lip, the motion so similar to how she does it in her own body. “I don’t mind, but could we… do it together? I could show you what feels the best to me.”

Astarion dives into her bare chest, wrapping his arms around her neck. “Oh my gods, I love you so much. You're so perfect for me, pet. I can put my fingers in my cunt?”

“Mine or yours?”

“Yes. Both. All of it. Anything, please.”

“You're so hungry, Husband.”

“I always am for you.”

She pulls away, pinching his nose. “And you. Can I put something on, please?”

Daring a peek back down, he sighs at his cock. Wretched thing might not be getting any action tonight. “Yes. Underwear only though. I need that skin-on-skin contact.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hircine mocks in a deep, affected accent as she slides off the bed, searching for wherever he threw the underwear. 

Is that what it sounds like when he’s being a brat? No wonder she finds him so silly all the time. 

“Wait, how should it lay?” Hircine asks. His cockhead sticks straight up out of the underwear, calling to Astarion, pleading to be free once again. 

Ignoring the siren call of his own penis, Astarion laughs, beckoning Hircine over. He sticks his hand into the underwear, holding back the snort of laughter when Hircine jumps while he adjusts his cock until it rests where it should, though it’s weird from this angle. “It should just… feel right? Does it?”

“I think so? I’ll get used to it.” 

“Good. I am very excited, though I’d much rather be back in my body, shoving my fingers and tongue into your cunt instead.”

“And I would much rather have your cock down my throat, but here we are.”

Hircine dirty talking him in his own voice? Could he come from listening to her describe everything in explicit detail?

Oh absolutely, yes. That's undeniable, but he wants something inside of him. So desperately, horrifically much. His cunt is throbbing with need and he knows the panties are soaked through completely. 

“Alright, pet, tell me what to do.” He takes her face in his hands, brushing a thumb across a sharp cheekbone. This is such an amazing experience. Each and every moment will be committed to memory with perfect clarity, if only they had one of those memory shards on hand so they could rewatch this as much as they please.

“I guess it’s time for you to get naked.”

His heart soars, the rhythmic pounding vibrating through his chest. “Will you help me?”

Hircine smiles, soft and sweet and he just adores the way those eyes crinkles around the edges. “Of course, Husband.” She unties the already loosened robe completely, flicking it over and down his shoulder.

With a smug grin, Astarion squeezes his arms around his tits and shakes his shoulders so they jiggle with the movement. He likes it when Hircine does it. 

An unimpressed, raised brow is all he gets for that action. “It's just a mirror.” She mutters.

“A mirror? What do you mean?”

“I'm pretending I'm looking into a mirror. This whole thing,” she waves between the two of them, “is hurting my head. I don't know if it's helping.”

“This hurts your head, but not the—” Astarion winces when, as if summoned, Herma-Mora's discordant chittering pierces a blade through his skull.

A̴̢̭̱̘̖͙̮̭͉̙͓͇̯͙̜͒̆̂͑ǫ̷̼̜͉̦͙̊̎̓͋͗̃͛̕ͅͅb̶̢̭͈̹͖̖͑̈́͂̀͐Ý̵̡͎̪̞͓̭͈́̆̓̏̐̈́̐ͅQ̷̡͉̭̙̪̼̲̪̩̣̣̻͇͕̼͂̍̀

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he groans. “I want it to stop.”

“I rarely ever hear him when I'm… enjoying myself—outside of when I seek him out intentionally. Stop thinking about him.”

“Are you thinking of another man when I'm inside you?!” I'm right here! How could she think of that vile monster when I, a beautiful, gorgeous, heart-breaking piece of man, am by her side?!

“He's not a man, and no, that's not what I meant. Let's move—”

“Hircine, my pet, I'm all for trying out new things, but bringing your mind-invader into the bedroom is not what I—”

Seemingly had enough, Hircine finds his nipples easily and pulls. Not hard, but it's enough for Astarion's brain to pleasantly shatter, the sting of arousal striking white-hot through every fiber of his being. His limbs turn to jelly, his core is screaming for something to fill him. The lewd moan that slips from his mouth couldn't possibly be contained even if he tried when his eyes slam shut, rocking forward in the hopes that Hircine might do more.

Instead, the traitorous (wo)man leans forward with a frown, releasing her tight hold on those peaks of delight much too early. “How about we move on to what's got you so bothered instead? I can smell the change… it's strange…”

“That's how I, uh, always know you're in the mood.” He's panting. His heart’s pounding. This body is absolutely quivering for more. 

How does Hircine keep it together when she responds so wholly with her body?

“Seems like cheating when you can just smell the difference.”

He wipes some drool from the side of his mouth. “That's called a natural advantage, pet. Not my problem that your body just… weeps for me.”

“Do you want to touch yourself or not?” 

He all but launches himself into Hircine’s chest, clutching at the curls that frame her beautifully pointed ears. “Please, I need it!” If he can't have his own cock, then the fingers will have to do. 

“Alright,” she climbs onto the bed, spreading her legs and patting the spot between, “sit here, back to me.” The robe is thrown to the floor, and panties, which are soaked as expected and he beats down the urge to taste them as he always does, are thrown away before Astarion dives in, situating himself right where she asked. Her cool hands immediately slip between his thighs and pry them open with ease, knees raised and feet planted on their soft bedding. The cool air in the room meets the wetness of his cunt for a very refreshing feeling. That’s nice. 

He’s stunned and insanely turned on by the forwardness Hircine is presenting when she is always the one waiting for his command. Being in his body must make her bold. 

“To start, your hands, please, Husband.” Both her hands are held up in waiting, her lips close to his ear, speaking in heady, hushed tones that have him fighting the urge to just shove her fingers into his dripping cunt so he can fuck himself silly on them.

Astarion enthusiastically places his hands in Hircine’s, and she guides them to his heaving chest to cup each breast in a hand. “To get started, sometimes I like to squeeze and roll them around,” and they do just that in tandem, gently squeezing the soft, weighty flesh of his tits, admiring how they spill over in his smaller hands. “Harder,” she whispers, digging their fingers in, right on the cusp of too hard. His head falls back, a breathy moan and wiggling hips, his response to the alluring sensation. 

This is decadent! He can’t believe Hircine is always so quiet in bed when it feels like this. His cunt continues to clench around nothing, and Astarion can barely wait for more.

“And when that isn’t enough anymore,” she says, shifting her grip to lay his fingertips onto his nipples, “then I know this is what I need.” They brush featherlight over the tightened buds, very gently circling around the areolas and good gods, Astarion wishes he could just come from this and literally nothing else. His tits are alight with the most delightful tingle that trails like fire through his stomach and loins, and this is only his touch, not Hircine’s.

“Can you—Can you do it?” He gasps out, arching his back to rest his head on her strong shoulder and jut his chest out. If he doesn’t get some more stimulation, he might explode. 

“Oh, my poor, needy Husband… You want me to touch you?” She coos.

“Fuck—Please, I need it, Hircine!” He demands, rocking back against her, looking down to relish in the way his tits bounce with the action. Finding it within herself to be gracious, Hircine cups his breasts now, thumb and forefingers pinching over his pale nipples to twist them around. His thighs slap together when he moans loud and long and desperate, struggling to comprehend how amazing it feels with her hands on him now. She could probably rip his nipples right off and it would still be one of the best experiences to date. 

She hums, a thoughtful noise that rumbles through her throat, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks next. “I don’t think we play with our ears enough…” A wet tongue snakes along the shell of his ear, shockingly tender and sensitive, and Astarion’s breath hitches. Between the ear licking and the nipple touching, it’s all so much, so perfect, so good. 

And then Hircine pushes his breasts up towards their faces, releasing him so they bounce back into place. “Do it to yourself some more.” She commands, not all that stern in case he were to reject such a thing. As if. Following instructions like the good husband he is, Astarion returns his hands to where they belong, missing Hircine’s touch, but loving his own all the same. 

While he appreciates how much Hircine is getting into this, Astarion is stunned that she is noticeably not hard against his back. How?! 

Oh, well. His pleasure is the most important right now. 

Pinching, pulling, rolling, with this body reacting by clenching, yearning, throbbing… A frantic energy is building up within him, but with his touch on his breasts only, he knows there will be no reaching the brink of satisfaction.

As usual, Hircine’s timing is good, or maybe she knows her body well enough to understand that this kind of play would not be enough. Her fingers tickle down his flat stomach and he watches at it involuntarily clenches at the funny feeling. She then stops right at the apex of his sex, drumming against the pubic bone.

“Hmm, do you want to tease or shall I?” She asks and Astarion’s heart flutters. 

“You.” His desperate response is instantaneous. Why would she ever ask when she knows it’s so much better that she do it?

One hands scoops up a breast, lightly massaging it in a firm grip, but much to his dismay, the nipple is ignored entirely while her other hand pries open his thighs once again, palm and fingers smoothing along the supple flesh of his inner thigh, occasionally circling dangerously close to his lower lips before skirting away to repeat the motion. On his own, he could see how this wouldn’t be all that exciting, but with Hircine’s strong hands initiating, it has him on the verge of begging. 

On another lazy pass by his folds, Hircine leaves her hand to rest there, but finally offers some relief from the toying by brushing the thumb on her other hand over a peaked bud, and Astarion realizes he’s been holding his breath for much, much too long, his chest constricting with need until he sucks one in with a gasp as his hips jerk up, eager for Hircine to continue.

Her quiet voice, insistent and urging, reaches him. “Touch yourself, Husband.”

Biting back a moan, Astarion does as he's told, no hesitation, digits sliding down his stomach just as she did before, aiming for that swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves that he knows gets Hircine off so well. The second his fingers make contact, crackling sparks of pleasure jolt through his body, unleashing a debauched gasp that he didn't even know Hircine’s body was capable of. 

He’ll take more of that. His fingers slip down further, swirling just outside the hungry mouth of his cunt to coat himself in slick, and that movement is carried back up to the clit, gently rubbing around it for the most glorious sensation. Hircine, not one to sit idly by, turns her attention to his tits, kneading them with fervent affection and pulling on the impossibly, hardened peaks. He’s so breathless as his hips buck, searching for some more friction. 

“Oh, fuck, Hircine, it’s so, so good!” He mewls as she tenderly pinches his nipples. “Can-Can I put my fingers inside? Please, I want it so bad!”

He can hear how she licks her lips, letting out a quiet huff of laughter. “Are you going to fuck yourself on your fingers?”

“Yes!”

“Then do it.” She whispers. 

Instantly, he sinks his middle finger inside that glorious wet heat, then another follows immediately after because Astarion is craving it so deeply. His cunt grips his fingers as they slide in and out at a slow, cautious pace, reveling in how slick and warm and hot it is. While Astarion is lost in himself, Hircine flicks her fingers across his clit and roughly twists one of his nipples with the other hand, and he is lost to the shock of overwhelming euphoria that burns its way through his body. Her strokes on his clit continue, gentle and sensuous, urging him down a path to a mind-blowing orgasm, the likes he might not have experienced before. 

A third finger is added, a comfortable stretch inside him as he seeks out that spot Hircine loves so much and gods, does he want it. The coil is tightening within his belly, and Astarion presses back into Hircine, whining and moaning and gasping, and then—

Hircine stops, stilling all her movements completely.

Astarion is a yearning, flustered mess as he removes his fingers, panting hard when no release comes to ease the overwhelming burn. “Wh-Why did you stop?!” 

“It’s not fun if you come so quickly… I like the buildup, personally.” Her cold lips meet his cheek for a loud, smacking kiss that leaves him feeling dissatisfied. 

“Tch, I want to come, not play games.” Guess he’ll have to take his pleasure into his own hands if she’s going to be evil.

Wrapping an arm over his tits and covering his clit with her hand, Hircine smiles deviously against him. “No, we’re going slow.”

He scowls, “Is this because I fingered you under the desk while that gnome was asking for an advance payment last week?”

“Hmm, well now that you remind me… Yes. It is.” Hircine nibbles at his ear, fangs scraping against the sensitive skin there so gooseflesh raises across Astarion’s body, and he shivers. Running her fingers down through his puffy folds, she dips into his cunt once, then twice, before stroking the entrance and back up to his clit, teasing gently. “Also, my dear husband, I think it’s only fair that you know what it's like to be played with.”

It’s outright vengeance. Fine, they can play. He opens his slim legs as wide as he can, offering himself up completely for whatever Hircine has planned. Her fingers have warmed up to his body temperature now as she swirls them around, making a mess of his slick all along his cunt lips and thighs, occasionally giving some much needed attention to Astarion’s clit so he whines and squirms at the pleasure that strikes through his nerves.

Touch like this could feel just as good in his own body, but maybe it's the thrill, the strangeness, of being different that has him singing so much for each stroke, swipe and pinch. Hircine is rarely ever interested in self-pleasure unless he asks for a show, so the fact that she’s able to toy with him so well like this, knowing exactly the buttons to push, is a wonderful surprise. 

If it’s some advanced level of torture she’s learned or the height of absolute delight, Astarion is brought so close to the edge of oblivion, only to be brought back down again and again… and again, while Hircine whispers sweet nothings and taunts into his ears.

Whether her vengeance has been sated or she just knows he’s had enough, Hircine nuzzles her nose into his neck, trailing up until she murmurs in that decadent and deep voice. “Had enough, Husband?”

“Please.” A whispering plea slips past his lips, chest heaving and sweat clinging to his body as she works him over so thoroughly. Slickened fingers are brought to his mouth, and Astarion opens, keen to taste that nectar he so eagerly feasts on any other night. Musky, salty and sweet, not quite the same as it is when he’s tasting with his own tongue, but delicious all the same. Seeking out her lips, they meet in a slow, heated kiss to share his arousal. 

Hircine hums when she breaks away, red eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Different… Interesting. I’ll stop playing with you now.”

He melts into her chest, drawing circles over one of his pale nipples with an index finger, “Oh, thank the gods, I’m rea—Ah!” She buries two fingers inside his cunt before he can finish speaking, curling them up just right to hit that spot inside, while the other hand seeks out the rosy bud at the apex of his sex, rubbing it perfectly between her fingers. Astarion’s been kept mercilessly at the edge of bliss, so these intent ministrations by Hircine shoves him right over. 

His eyes screw shut while a choked cry echoes out into their bedroom as he comes, writhing in her arms when shockwaves of his orgasm overtake this body. Stars are seen, breath is trapped in his chest, and his nails dig into his tits while each rippling wave sends him reeling in euphoria. The two stroking fingers inside of his core are constricted as the walls of his cunt pulse in tune with his fluttering heartbeat, ebbing slowly to an occasional twinge as Hircine helps him ride each crest, before it abates fully, and Astarion is left a trembling and limp pile of limbs.

Eventually enveloped in a tight embrace, Hircine holds him close, placing sweet pecks to his temple. “Was that what you wanted?”

He groans and swallows to wet his dry throat, feeling like dropped jelly. “Does… it always feel like that?”

“Sometimes.”

“Fuck, that’s amazing.” Finally some sense is returned to his loose arms and legs, and Astarion curls up against Hircine, feeling purely satisfied. “Thank you, my love.” His eyes are already growing heavy, all the energy drained from his body after that mind-bending orgasm. 

Maybe after a short nap, everything will return to normal.

[yeyinde]

fever in a shockwave., i | Joe "Bear" Graves x f!Reader

pt., i | swallow him whole (like a pill that makes you choke)

It's one thing to sit back and passively watch a man self-destruct on minimum wage and tips, but another thing entirely to help him on that journey. So, you call it. Or: this is what happens when resident travesty Joe Graves meets a local track star fleeing from everything. (The only problem being: no one ever taught you how to run.)

warnings: implied/references to cheating (but not really); angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series wordcount: 15,1k

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It's one thing to sit back and passively watch a man self-destruct on minimum wage and tips, but another thing entirely to help him on that journey. 

So, you call it. 

(Like you should have months ago.)

Get me a scotch. Whisky, and—his hazy gaze slides to the woman barely sitting on the broken stool, eyes drooping and grinning much too wide considering where she's at, before jerking to you again—uh, whatever, uh… she's having. 

She's having long island iced tea. You're tired of making it, anyway. 

You nod, dutifully, but hand him a glass of room-temperature water, instead. 

"This isn't what I asked for." 

His voice is pitched low. Always. A strange, rasping timbre that you pretend does nothing to you no matter how many times his eyes slide over your body, liquid blue, and asks for something—bourbon, a scotch, rye. 

You can't quite meet his gaze when you shrug. "I know."

There is something about this man who reeks of stale cigarettes, motel shampoo, and wheat malt. Something that makes you ache in all the wrong ways. A man on the verge of implosion; a deadly, gaseous bomb that will leak miasma into the aether until you're rotten from the inside out. Organs full of those awful fumes he'll exude. 

Going out with a bang, heavy and suffocating. 

His hand jerks on the table. You watch his knuckles slide over the wood, clenching into a tight fist. So tight the scarred tissue around his bones turns white. Bleached under the strain of barely keeping it together. 

There is something about an angry man that itches under your skin.  

"What the fuck?" The woman beside him breaks the stifling silence. "We paid—"

"S'alright," he says. Low, low—voice scraping against the gravel. His chin falls when you look up. Expression blank, but not vacant. Anger, and—

Maybe a little bit of guilt, sadness, regret.

"Let's get outta here, then," she coos, hand trailing over his chest. 

"Yeah," he mutters, and you wonder what caused the shadows in his eyes this time, the ones dulled, glossy, and drenched in cheap liquor. His fist clenches, eyes narrowing. "Let's go." 

Anger clings to him. His shoulders are drawn tight even when he wobbles on his feet, unsteady. His hand slams down on the counter, nails—dirty, chewed down the wick—grazing the chipped grain as he tries to stable himself. 

His chin lifts, as if he's demanding you to say something. Threatening in blotchy malt, eyes fixed on you like a cobra, a predator. Ocean blue, foggy and glazed over with the nearly hundred dollar tab he tossed on tonight —all in shots, in long island iced teas—and wonder what the blue looks like on a clear day. 

Wonder, haltingly, if you'll ever find out. 

He leans forward, eyes cresting. Corners turned down in some facsimile of goading, of jeer. His palm turns on the table, closer, now. The space between you is cut by the counter; a perfect partition. 

He waits a beat, takes three inhale, two exhales, and then—

Hands loop around his broad waist, chipped pink shaved into almond points catching on a stain in the shade of grease-yellow. 

"You comin'?" She murmurs from behind him, voice muffled. 

His eyes don't waver. "Yeah."

Yours drop. A flash of gold catching in the jaundiced light. 

There are bad ideas, and there is this. 

(A sickness.)

On the opposite side of the Virginia Beach boardwalk is a dive bar on the fringes of obsoletion. One just barely clinging to its last vestiges of life. It is considered too far away for a younger, rowdier crowd to congregate, and too dilapidated to pull anyone who wasn't searching for one thing, and one thing only: escapism. 

Numbed apathy at the bottom of cheap ale. Curated indifference in a bottle.

There is no affection in some of the older generations' tones when they speak of this place. It isn't something of their youths, or anything to feel that weepy sense of nostalgia over. 

It's just a beaten-down pub in a sea of many. 

Hardly anyone's first choice. 

(Somewhere in the crumbling pages of Freud, you're sure, it would tell you why you decided to work here of all places, too.)

You clock into work, ready for the usual slough to pass through. Another mundane night that the chef has dubbed the usual.  

The usual being: opening at five to an empty bar that stretches until eight, maybe none, when the solid sea of regulars (lifers, you've taken to calling them), will have settled in their spots. It mostly consists of twelve people—max—dispersed in the bar, some of them truckers on break or passersby, tourists, who wandered too far down the boardwalk because they didn't know any better. 

It's normal. Routine. 

You expected the same lour stagnancy that bleeds into everything else, dripping down in a steady trickle like the rainwater that leaks in from the cracks in the shingles your boss refuses to fix, pelting the bottom of the tin bucket perched beneath the hole until it's overflowing. Grey water trapped in a metal prison. 

You've come to expect the sulphurous scent whenever you take your place behind the counter.

The most offbeat thing that happened today was your horoscope this morning said to be wary of sinkholes, a problem you haven't thought of since you were younger, and one you doubt you'd face in Virginia, of all places. 

(It also said: love life? Tragic. Finances? Might improve sooner than you think. Social life? Could be better.) 

Nothing unusual, really.

And then—

A flash from the corner of your eye. Two fingers jerking up once, flagging you down. The universal sign for hey, bartender, over here. You obey the command, painting an unnecessary smile on your face, one that rarely ever goes acknowledged. You turn to the man who waved you over, and—

Well. 

He's massive. Different, but decidedly not out of place in a room that reeks of stale beer and lemon cleaner. He moulds to the shadows, sticking like glue to the crevasse in the corner. 

Something about him prickles your skin. A break in the routine. 

Your heart does this strange, off-rhythm beat when you walk up to him, taking stock of the way he barely fits on the rusted stool. His legs are too bulky, too broad, for both of them to fit together. One thigh spends nearly the entire length of the worn, flat cushion. 

They are long enough that he has to bend at the knee to keep his foot flush with the floor. 

But it doesn't matter. Not really. Except the strange lurch doesn't settle when it becomes apparent he isn't going to look away. 

He keeps his gaze—cenote blue—fixed on you the whole time. 

It's in his eyes where you find just how similar he is to some of the regulars: 

Anger. Resentment. Bitterness. 

A broken thing scraping the bottom of a bottle for something to abate the everpresent ache inside. 

When you're close enough, he dips his chin. The thick auburn beard covering his face is rough and worn; it's unkempt, like his hair—moused, greasy—and his clothes—stained and wrinkled. He has a pock on his forehead, and a small scar. The silvery skin catches in the ugly fluorescent lighting above. 

He's in a state of disarray. Chaotically unkempt, but the shadows under his eyes—tenebrism on breathing flesh—tell you, implicitly, that he does not care. A chiaroscuro in sabotage, he leaks ruin when you lean in with a tight, shaky smile. 

No greeting. Just—

"Whisky. Two shots." 

It's blunt. Unapologetic. A direct dismissal. 

You're not his friend. You deserve no pleasantries in such a place, nor will you find any with him. 

And, really—

You're used to men like him sidling up to the bar, barking out their drink of choice without so much as a hello, lovely evening for it. This is no different from anyone else who sat on that same chair, ordered the same drink, and stank of the same corrosive rot. 

Nothing different at all. 

Yet, he leaks octane out of every pore of his body. The rust in his gaze is a warning sign: this is a man on the verge of collapse, and one less stable than Betelgeuse. 

His eyes are murky blue. Stagnant water. It's a trap, though. There's a livewire buried under the velvet surface. 

Your smile wobbles. "Sure."

He's dangerous. The hisses in your head say he's everything you should run from. 

(Too bad for them, no one ever taught you how.)  

It becomes a routine. 

He shows up at the same time each week—six on the dot—takes the stool across from the entrance, and diagonal to the washrooms, the kitchen.  

He looks around the room. Then reaches for his phone.

And he looks—

Miserable. 

It's none of your business. None at all. It's not even something you should be noticing—like how his knuckles are always split apart or in some state of healing. How he turns his phone off as soon as he sits down, but always takes a moment to stare at the photo on his wallpaper—a woman, his wife, smiling at the camera. Something shudders over his expression. He turns it off, and slips it in his pocket. 

In that singular moment, something switches. 

He waves you over. Orders a drink. Stumbles out the door when it's time for closing like all the other frequent flyers looking to chase their demons away in amber. 

A man like him shouldn't be here. 

Military, Pete says; he spoke to him a few days after his first arrival but adds nothing more except a shake of his head, and a softly uttered poor fucking sod, which, coming from the man who is running himself bankrupt to feed an unquenchable addiction, it pacts a degree of potency that leaves you feeling numb. 

You heard him utter something back in a low tone to a man who tried to drag him back a few weeks after he first took his seat, and never left. 

God ain't here, is he? He wasn't there then, and he isn't here now. Leave me alone, Buddha. Just—take care of them. Take care of the team, the boys. Just do that for me, and find this son of—

There are no answers in the bunch of his shoulders, the low hang of his head. He grinds the heel of his palm into his left eye so hard, you sometimes wonder if he's trying to shatter his socket to finally alleviate the ache inside. The other hand always curled tight around a glass, half empty. Knuckles bloodied. 

And that's how he spends his evening. 

Chasing relief in whisky. 

Oftentimes, he's alone. 

Just himself and two empty stools beside him that whine when his broad thighs tap against the cushions, rusted metal grating together, and orders the same cheap booze. 

Has the same haunted look in his eyes, the same shadows. Reeks of the same rot. A wound that never heals. It's just dulled in an easy, quick swallow out of a smeared shot glass until he's too drunk to keep his eyes open.

(You suppose it's hard to be chased by ghosts when they're drenched in formaldehyde. 

Or cheap perfume—)

Sometimes, on very rare occasions, he isn't. 

You'd be remiss not to notice. Even chasing an easy out at the end of a bottle, it's obvious he's an attractive man. Big. Broad. 

Surly.

(Your type always seems to be carrying some weight. 

Maybe that's why their shoulders are always so big.)

He's unshaven—face covered in thick bristles of burnt umber that curl at the ends; some grey leaks in around his temples, his jaw. You don't think he's washed his hair in a week much less his beard, and yet—

You wonder what it would feel like on your skin—

(Bad thoughts. Bad—)

He wears several Walmart brand Henleys in rotation, all the same ones you'd get from a pack for less than twenty dollars. Maybe even less than ten. Grey, charcoal blue, midnight blue, black, white. In that order. And jeans. Ones that barely fit around his thick thighs, his wide waist. 

Black shoes—trousers never tucked in—and a—

It catches in the glow. The woman beside him glances down once, recognition bleeds in the draw of her brows, and you expect anger, reproach, scorn. You tense, waiting for it. For the proverbial comeuppance men like him are supposed to get. It's how it goes in the movies, right? 

He's supposed to be the smarmy type who oozes sycophantic charm, women hanging off them as they dabble in hedonism without any feelings of regret. Men like him are followed by a thundercloud. A looming storm in the distance promises a torrential downpour. 

You wonder if the deluge would soak you, too. 

And—

Nothing. 

Instead, her hand falls to the centre of his chest, placed right against his sternum. Eyes coy, glossy. One of her lashes clings to the bottom. 

"What are you doing after this?" 

She's curated perfection: sultry and alluring. 

You can see his glazed eyes drift down to her open blouse—the brand on the button says Michael Kors, and probably costs triple your earnings for the night—and you know, then, that he'll leave with her.

None of the women he takes home is the type you'd find in a dive bar like this, but you suppose pickings are slim in a college town that likes to gossip. They run the risk of getting caught nestled too close together in the back by Tim the Vicar, and so they come here. Where the hardened, rugged alcoholics go to escape the prying eyes of their neighbours, and coworkers. 

A sea of shady, drunk people. 

In the corner near the exit, a man slides a bag into the awaiting hands of a businessman. A woman sits by herself in a booth for six, and you know her husband, a pastor who has been trying to raise funds to open a new church, runs the town's chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. A man who stays until closing, drinking pint after pint on the opposite side of the stool will stand up, keys in hand, and go deliver the morning news at five AM. 

The woman in Anne Klein trousers and a Michael Kors blouse who runs her nails down his cheap, stained Henley, eyes dark and full of promises for later, is someone you pass on the highway on your commute to this little cesspit outside of town. 

She's always smiling brightly on a billboard next to her husband, a man running for mayor. 

Maybe, you think, bringing your thumb up to your lips, teeth digging into the seam between your skin and nail as you watch them stumble out of the bar, they're a perfect match. Both drunk, both looking for cheap thrills drenched in sleaze, and—

Both wear gold bands around their ring finger. 

          (—to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law, in the presence of God I make this vow—)

          You're eight and treading water. Your mum brings you to the local pool, eyes covered by bulky black sunglasses that hide her expression from you. 

(No one ever taught you how to swim. You wonder if she knows this, but doubt it. She doesn't really know much about you at all.)

You cling to the wet ledge, cement digging into your skin as you struggle to stay above the waves that lap at you, pooling inside of your ears. It's warbled. Distorted. 

"...For another woman, can you believe it? God, he just—he makes me so fucking sick. Can't he see what he's doing to me? Pathetic, is what he is." 

Your grip slips, and you plunge under the surface, knees scratching the sides. You can still hear her—a garbled tangent. Leaving us. Won't even try to make it work. How am I supposed to take care of a kid all on my own? How am I supposed to—

It's a kaleidoscope in shades of blue. The water is warm at the surface, but as you sink to the bottom, eyes catching on a pair of yellow goggles, it gets cold. A sudden chill. 

No one taught you how to swim, and despite the instinct inside of you to gasp for air that isn't there, to flail, you don't. You—

Drift. 

It's a baptism in chlorine. 

It's both louder and quieter than anything you'd ever experienced before. 

Pathetic. Stupid, selfish man. Leaving me like this with you, all for some cheap floozy—

Serene. Everything is static underwater. Your burning eyes fix themselves on the hazy yellow wavering at the bottom of the endless blue, and slowly, slowly slip shut. 

You think you'd like to stay down here forever. 

But you're not quite as lucky as you wish you were. Buoyancy spits you back out. 

You surface gasping, gagging, coughing out the water that you'd swallowed on your quick ascent, something to fill your belly up and keep you grounded, an anchor. It didn't work. Your stomach churns with the briny water you gulped down.

Your hands claw at the side of the pool, knuckles shredding against the harsh stucco that covers the concrete ledge. It bites into your skin until it bleeds. 

But you're okay. You breathe, and breathe, and—

"It's madness to think I can do it alone. And what are you doing? Stop playing around! You're causing a scene—"

Chlorine on your tongue, spuming inside of your lungs; the taste is familiar. Bitter. Acrid. 

It's poison inside of you. 

(A sickness.)

He forms a habit with each visit. 

But he isn't the only one. 

He talks to you— sometimes —and you're distinctly aware of every my bartender is my therapist joke that had ever been conceived, but it's different. 

No, really. It is. 

He tells you about things. He's a SEAL— former —and even cracks a facsimile of a smile when you ask if he'd have to kill you now or later for leaking such covert information. It's a dumb joke. It's not even funny, but his lips twitch beneath his thick beard, eyes crinkle. 

He even huffs at you when you ask when he's going to shave it. 

Maybe next year, kid. 

Kid. It's what he calls you. Never your name. Nothing to make you a real, living person to him. Just a hazy object in the ethanol gossamer that clouds the blue of his eyes until he's squinting at you, and saying bring me a whisky, kid.  

Impartial. Distant. 

He never goes out of his way to start the conversion, or to invite you over, but he never really tells you to knock it off, leave him alone, either. 

Sometimes, you say something stupid, like shouldn't you be training or something instead of giving yourself cirrhosis? and you can see him shut down. Retreat. His shoulders unfurl, spine straightened, and his eyes harden. A veil of moondust white plumes between you, dislodged when the crater forms. 

A chasm resides in the echoes of camaraderie and you wish you could just eat your words or swallow your tongue. 

It never lasts too long. 

A visit later, two. Then, when you pluck up the courage to talk to him again, he eases into it with slurred words, and a little drunk grin twisting on his lips at the dumb (safe) things you say. 

It doesn't count as a smile. You tell him this during the end of surf season. I've never seen you smile. You grin when you're drunk, but. Who doesn't? 

And he says, got nothing to smile about, kid. 

You hate the way your fingers itch. 

He's broken pieces that are too shattered, too splintered to fit back together. Kintsugi isn't enough to seal the cracks, and you should leave him alone to his own ruinous devices. Let him rot—like all the others you ignore, content to refill their glass whenever they wander up.

But he's different. 

(Or maybe you're just broken, too.

A fixer. Stupid. There is nothing in this to fix.)

You keep at it without really knowing what it is. There is no end goal. No greater purpose. 

(Maybe, it's the reek of loneliness that wafts off of him. The same scent you wake up to, clinging to your pillow. The one that gnarls behind your ribs like a mouldering infestation. 

Maybe, it's because out of all the men who wander in, he's the only one who looks like he's already too far gone, and you've always liked the taste of crushing disappointment.)

It becomes something. An ebb and flow. 

He sits on the same stool every week while you paddle on, a soliloquy about the inanities of your life to an audience who is too big to drown himself at the end of the glass, but sometimes stares down at it like he wishes he could. 

It pays off in slow, small ways. 

One month in, you start a game. 

It's this silly thing you play in the safe haven of your head; a way to pass the time when the seconds (minutes, hours) tick by pokily, and the stench of cheap malt makes your head swim. 

You don't know why you tell him this little secret of yours—maybe, it's the way he holds his glass, clutched between bloodied knuckles, the scabs from last week ripped off and leaking ichor over the cracks in his skin.

Or how distant he feels, like he's further away than ever before. A chasm. It crackles in the air when he orders, words muted. A clicking grumble out of his throat, mouth barely opening. 

It's uttered through clenched teeth, but there is no anger. No bitterness. Just—

Defeat. 

So, you talk. 

(Empty words. No meaning. It's what you're best at, isn't it?

Filling space.)

The door opens, and you tell him out of the corner of your mouth that the man will order a cocktail. 

He barely looks up. Says nothing, but his eyes follow yours, locking on to the man who wanders up to the counter. His Hawaiian shirt sticks out like a sore thumb. 

He huffs, shoulders shaking. 

"A tourist," is all he says, but he waits. Watches. 

It feels a bit like satisfaction when the man grins wide, and asks for whisky sour. Says he's from out of town. 

You catch the way his brows bounce from the corner of your eye. The soft, golden light casts shadows in the valleys of his forehead. They carry the colour of victory, and you tuck the hue in your chest, in the locked box where everything else goes. 

(Three weeks later, he joins in. Adds his own commentary to each drink order. 

Social smoker, he says after a moment when you tell him he'll order something hard first—tequila, a whisky—and then mixed drinks. Vodka cranberry. Rum and coke. He doesn't usually smoke, but when the boys go outside for one, he'll join.

He orders a shot of bourbon. Bear tucks his lips behind his own glass of whisky, and you mourn the loss of seeing his smile before you have to hide your own when he comes back and asks for a tall gin and tonic. 

You catch his eye when the man leaves, trailing behind a group playing poker in the corner, and it feels a little bit like satisfaction when the chasm feels less imposing than it did before.)

Two, and you get his name. 

Joe Graves. 

It's so normal compared to the walking travesty sitting to your right, that you almost think he's lying. Almost. But then he adds, elbow knocking on the table, a glass tucked into the palm of his other hand that somehow looks two sizes too small in his massive paw: they call me… used to call me Bear.

Bear. You hate the thrill that runs through you. The ache that splits inside your chest. 

And the question that looms over the lapse. The brief silence that felt poignant and stifling between call me and the bitter amendment to used to. 

Military man, you think. 

You take to calling him Bear just to see the way his eyebrows tick on his forehead, brow wrinkling in rucks of five deep lines. Amusement simmers in geyser blue; an undercurrent of appeasement, as if he's been longing to hear that name again. 

(You tuck that away, too.)

Four, you get a flash of teeth when he grins, brief, fleeting, at your one-sided monologue about the perfect way to pour Guinness and this Instagram page some lad made about the worst pours in London. 

He tucks it behind the rim of the glass as if it's illegal, wrong. Shameful. But you catch it, anyway. You catch it because you're always looking, always watching.

"In case you haven't noticed, we're in America," is all he says when you show him some of the atrocities committed, brows knotting together in the middle. 

You huff. "They're awful. Look at them."

"Huh." His eyes narrow, squinting at the picture. His mouth curls to the side. "Kinda looks like yours."

"Oh, shut up, Bear. It does not!"

His hands raise in mock surrender. "It's just… I didn't know it was supposed to go flat so fast. You learn something new, right?" 

You spend the rest of the evening working on your pour, nails stinging when you chew them down to the wick as you concentrate on getting the perfect patio right. All the while, he scrolls through the page with a thick finger, leading smudges on your screen, and adding in his own commentary (usually just a huff, a harsh exhale out the nose, or a scoff) to each one. 

"Look," he holds your phone up, forehead creasing in jest, and then motions to the pint you slammed down in front of him a few moments ago. "They copied your technique." 

He's pretty when he smiles, you think, sundrunk and blistered, dazed from the gleam of white. The jagged ends of your nails catch on the skin of your palm when you squeeze your hands into fists by your side. Something wet, sticky, pools in your laugh line until it's a bloodied leat. 

(It takes two weeks to clear the image from your head, and another to pretend you haven't tucked it somewhere inside of your chest for safekeeping.)

You prod at him just to see it again. Empty words. No meaning. 

What's your star sign? You ask, tapping the screen of your phone as you read your horoscope. You think, distantly, about painting your nails. Maybe, once and for all, kicking your habit of chewing them down to jagged edges as close to the line of your skin as possible. 

Anne Klein, the second woman he took home, wore her nails in blue. 

No good deed goes unpunished with your moon where it's at. Love life? Abysmal. Finances? Could be worse. Social life? Sorry—what's that again? 

His brows bunch together in a series of five rings. You count them all. My what?

You know. When were you born?

Give me a goddamn break. 

Ahhh, I bet you're a Taurus.

Now that is covert information.

Yep, totally a Taurus.

(He cracks a small smile at that, crooked and shaky, like he forgot how it's supposed to be done.)

He falls asleep at the bar five months in. Another habit is born.

Exhaustion seeped into every pore when he wandered in a few hours ago with a wrinkled plaid half-sleeve and gingham coat. 

You'd pointed out that the buttons at the bottom didn't line up when he sat, and watched as he seemed to fluster a little at that. As if the stench of rot and sleep didn't cling to him like an addiction; like he didn't have stains on his collar, or oozing scabs on his knuckles, and his biggest worry right now was his button not aligning.

He looks more put together tonight than he does any others, but the two women who approached (Friday night—the poster on the door says it's singles night) were turned down. 

(A trend, lately.)

It's none of your business—you're not even a therapist, you're just the one bringing the bottle—but you soak everything up like a greedy sponge, and try to ignore the elation churning in your chest when he says, no, I'm, uh. I'm not interested. 

So, you babble. You turn your head away from him so he doesn't catch the grin on your lips, and take to wiping down the counter as you fall into your normal, one-sided tangent. 

You get about halfway through your vague retelling of the Incident at the coffee shop when a soft grumble reaches your ears. 

You turn, fingers clenching around the nozzle of the trap—local; the hinges squeak from disuse—and—

Head dropped, chin tucked into the lapels of his wrinkled shirt. They're upturned at the ends, pressing into his cheek. His arms are folded, hands tucked under his biceps. 

The only thing saving him from toppling backwards is the wall he's leaning against. 

You don't realise you had been staring until cold foam sloshes over the top of the pint. You fluster, eyes darting back to him, checking to see if he'd noticed, but his eyes are still closed, his mouth slightly parted. 

It's—

Cute.

He looks younger, softer when he sleeps. The weight of it all bleeding out under the heavy pressure of somnolence. Fatigue. 

He's typically pitched inside the shadows, leaning back into the tenebrous of the dimly lit room behind him. This is the first time he's slumped forward fully, and with an amber glow highlighting the valleys of his face, the definition of his long, broad nose, the sloping hills of his eyes, the full pink mouth hidden behind unkempt curls that lighten to ash at the ends, you're hit with the realisation of how truly fucked you are. 

He's attractive. Ruggedly handsome with his kind-shaped eyes, and his crooked grin, but distinct. There is nothing innocuous about the way he looks, and yet—

You feel assured in his presence. Calmed. He's quiet, and never speaks louder than the muted scratch of a glass bottom dragging across the tabletop. His bulk should be intimidating, but he's always sitting, hunching his shoulders in on himself as if he's clutching a grenade tight to his chest. 

It feels wrong to stare at a customer so blatantly like this, but your eyes keep skirting back to him in this moment of peace. 

But it's brief. 

A small window where he can slip into full relaxation, hiding from the phantoms that grasp at his soft tissue during the day, raking their nails over the gummy lining of his mind until he's forced to reconcile the pain with cheap whisky in a bottle. 

They find him in his dreams, too. His brow twitches. Hands jerking, fingers tensing. 

You want to reach over, soothe the valley between his brow, but it's not your place. So, you leave him. You leave him, and hope that despite the restlessness, he does get something from this. Much needed rest. Sleep. Anything. 

The night dwindles. Most of your time lately is spent chatting away at the stonewall of a man to your right, and with that avenue snoring, you pull your textbook from beneath the counter, and let your eyes trace over the words meant to define your forever. 

His soft, rough snores fill the static between you and the rest of the bar, and you let him sleep until the sparse room thins. Until the chairs are hiked over the tables you wiped down, scouring out the stickiness that catches the ends of the cloth. Until the bottles were restacked, the glasses ran through the dishwasher. 

The cook pokes his head out, and bids you goodnight. You wave him off and try to ignore the look on his face when he catches sight of Bear still slouched on the stool. He says nothing more, but he never does. Never gets involved with anything outside of the kitchen. 

(A smarter man than you.)

When the clock strikes well past closing, you finally sidle up to him, reaching out over the counter to knock your knuckles on the wall over his head. 

(And if you're a little too close, catching the ends of his hair on your palm, then that's your secret to keep.)

"Times up, Bear."

He jerks awake, blinking at you sluggishly, and quickly brings his hands to his chest before he's even fully cognizant. He pats himself down in a way that is too purposeful to be anything but intentional, practised. 

When he's settled, when whatever he was looking for is either gone or confirmed, he sniffs, clears his throat, and drags his glossy eyes up to meet yours. 

"Times what?" 

"Up," you punctuate the word by raising your brows, jerking your thumb to the clock on the wall that's always three minutes too late. "It's time to head home."

His eyes squint when he takes in the time, and then groans. His hand reaches up, carting through his messy hair (soft, a little greasy at the ends), before he rubs his index finger and thumb over his forehead, dragging the skin up and down. 

Your hand jerks, and you bring your thumb to your mouth, teeth catching on your nail. All you taste is malt. 

"Sorry," you murmur, soft, quiet; words muffled by your finger. "I should have woken you up sooner."

"No, it's—," he stops, takes a deep breath, and then runs his hand down his face until his palm covers his mouth and chin. He blinks up at you. "When did I fall asleep?"

You shrug, dropping your hand to the pocket of your apron. "A little bit after you got here."

"Jesus…" he presses his hand into his jaw, eyes glancing toward the wall. The word is laced with a tinge of surprise. Maybe, a little uncertainty. 

"You looked like you needed it." 

The moment the words leave your mouth, you wince. Stupid. You could have said something else— anything else—instead of that. It was busy. You didn't even notice. It's not your job to babysit grown men with marital issues and poor decisions. It's not—

But he cracks his neck, cutting off the words wanting to disembogue, and when he turns back to you, his eyes look clear—clear blue. 

"This is the longest I'd slept in—"

He doesn't finish, but he doesn't have to. 

The way he stares at you itches under your skin. Abrasive. Stark. It lacks the usual glaze of alcohol-suppressed thoughts, ones numbed in malt, and you aren't sure what to make of the way his pupils dilate. Sapphire-lined black. The way his eyes widen slightly, mouth parting, as if he's only just noticing you for the first time. As if you'd always been this hazy mirage that aids in suppression, and deals out crutches in pints.

A frisson passes through the canyons in his gaze. A dawning sun cast shadows over the rolling landscape.

You don't know what to make of it, so you don't. At all. 

A tight smile. "It's time for me to, um. Lock up." 

He blinks, as if coming out of a stupor. Rapid clicks, shutters. He shakes his head a little, as if dislodging the colluvium from his thoughts. 

"Right."

"Unless you wanted to sleep here for the night?" 

It gets a soft chuckle. Three lines on his cheek. Two in his brow. Three on the corner of his eye. You map them all, each dip and valley until they're cemented in your head. 

He's more open like this. Sobriety looks better on him than—

His bruised knuckles rasp over the countertop. 

"Lemme walk you to your car."

You blink, heart lurching in your chest. "You don't have to."

"Yeah," he shrugs, and you think he might even try to grin but looks more like a grimace. A wince. "But I want to." 

It's a dangerous escarpment; a treacherous climb up an alluvial fan. Your fingers dig into the loose sediment that rains down around you, pelting you with small grains of dirt and rock. Each hit pocks your skin: a little divot where flesh once sat, but now is karst; split and cracked with caverns that run deep. The splinters crumble that brassbound resolve you've held tight in your fingers until your joints ached, and palms split. Don't be the other woman, your mother warned you. Don't. 

It'll be a crater soon, or maybe a blue hole. Aquifer polluting the bottom. Everything gone. Eroded. Swallowed whole in the sinkhole that forms. 

(Beware of sinkholes. Don't be the other woman.)

You know better than anyone what they say about expectations, and yet—

"Okay."

(He takes to walking you to your car every night, hands always shoved deep in his pockets or under his arms, shoulders hunched. 

You watch him stand in the parking lot until he fades from your rearview mirror.)

Seven you get a touch. His fingers ghost along the curve of your wrist, brushing your skin. 

His eyes aren't kind when you turn to him, but they shine with something other than the cheap rye in his glass, the scattered shots of tequila that spill around him. 

It's fixed and heavy. Unwavering. 

You try to smile, to shrug it off. "It's nothing."

The lie doesn't fit between your teeth, and you think he senses this, too, but he doesn't pry. You're surprised he even went out of his way to acknowledge your lour disposition—a string of weeks that coalesced into unease, into stress. One mediocre day after the other. 

Rent was late. Bills pile up. The books tucked beneath the counter, saved for slow days (read: every day), and for the eventuality of when you can finally toss this ramshackle dive bar aside for something better. Greater. 

And what that something is? 

Well. Who knows. 

But you're supposed to, aren't you? Know, that is. Have everything figured out and ready-made to fit neatly inside the margins of forever and the rest of your life. 

The rest of your life was four walls and a roof. 

Stuck in Virginia Beach on minimum wage that barely got you through college (thank you, inheritance), and no prospects outside of real estate. 

You think about moving but have no idea where to go. What to do. 

Stagnancy. It bleeds from your marrow into your bloodstream. A poison. 

You shrug when his forehead creases, brows raising as he waits for you to spit out whatever inane thing that could possibly be wrong. 

"Life, I guess," you huff, aiming for distant, blasè humour but it misses the mark by a solid kilometre and a half. 

"Yeah," he mumbles. He always mumbles. Words sticking together like glue. "I know that feeling."

You let it drop, nodding. 

(Four walls and a roof. That's the goal, then. That's always been the goal.)

You turn to him, forcing something that might, in a distant life, have been kin to a smile. 

"I bet he'll order a pint."

He takes it. "He's married, but takes his ring off. The skin on his finger is pale." 

He stutters over the word married.  

(Four walls, you think.)

"Huh," you huff. Foam spills from the lip of the glass, drenching your fingers in malt. "My dad always kept his on."

From the corner of your eye, you see his hand tighten around the pint. His ring makes a small noise when it hits the glass. 

Eight, a laugh. A low, rasping chuckle still wet from the swallow of rye he'd taken before you said something stupid like what's a man like you doing in a place like this, anyway?

It's drenched in bitter disbelief as if he isn't quite sure how you don't know. How you can't see that he fits between the waterlogged panels of the wooden floor, stained with grime and dyed with ethanol in patches around the tap. The pock marks in the counter, rubbed raw and scrubbed down to the cheap wood beneath, now jaundiced and discoloured from age. Or how he leaks the same desolate miasma of resignation, rage, and apathy as everyone else. 

He belongs, his derisive laugh says. Why don't you see it, too? 

It startles him, and you can see it happening as he takes in the neat, blunt cut of your eyes as you gaze at him, naked and honest. 

He retreats into himself as if allowing anyone to see him plain-faced and worthy is wrong. As if he is no different to the men who wobble in their chairs, eyes rimmed red and glazed as they run from the demons in their minds, and their lives, and seek salvation at the bottom of the bottle. The ones entirely aware, and unaware, that the bottle is elk, kin, the things they flee from. A juxtaposition in a man-made disaster. 

He pretends he fits in with them. You pretend you see it, too, if only so he doesn't run away. 

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

You count down the days until he shows up, and hate yourself a little bit more for the happiness that gnarls inside your chest each time you see him appear in the doorway. 

(A sickness.)

Nine brings a man from the church in town, someone from his past. And everything quickly unravels after that. 

He shows up before opening, carrying a stack of papers for some big event in the summer. An opening. A new church, he says, and jogs the stack on the counter. 

(You hide a smile, tucking it into your shoulder as discomfort bleeds into the placidity of his expression when some of the pages stick.)

He looks like every priest, every vicar, you'd ever seen before. Draped in black with a stark white collar; clean-shaven, and void of shadows. 

This isn't a place he should be. A place he belongs. He stands out amongst the grit, the hazy gossamer of smuggled cigarettes lit in the dingy washroom, and leaking nicotine yellow into the faded wood of the walls. The chipped, pocked tables, were picked at and worn down to soot-stained white. 

He doesn't belong, but he stays, anyway. In spite of the massive chasm that split between him and everyone, everything else, he sticks it out. 

And sticks out. 

Bear falters when he sees him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat when he wanders inside. His shoulders draw up to his chin, arms straight lines against his body. 

He looks like he might run. Flee. You almost expect him to. 

He doesn't. 

He says nothing when takes his usual spot, but his eyes are thunderclouds, brow drawn taut. A rubber band being stretched too far. 

(God ain't here, is he, Buddha?)

The priest doesn't notice the discomfiture that passes over Bear's expression, or the wan, agitated way he glares at the red stain (nail polish, you think) on the counter. He grins wide, happy, and tells you about the church they built. One raised from the funds of the community. 

"...And we're, of course, happy to accept new members to our congregation when it opens." 

You nod, dragging your gaze away from the calamity in blue, offering little more than a smile in return. 

"I don't," you hesitate, hands smoothing over the front of your worn apron. Going to church reminds you too much of baptism. Of water. Of sinking below the waves in a world of blue, and never surfacing again. Of—

Patronisation. 

You'd been to church three times in your life: to watch your mother remarry (twice), and to say goodbye to your father. 

(None of them were happy memories.)

"I don't go to church much."

He smiles, placidly, eyes warm and welcoming. "Never too late to start."

You guess they have an answer ready for everything. He might have been a great salesman in a different life. 

You don't want to commit, or lie—least of all to a man of faith—so, you talk. Fill space. 

"Want a drink?" 

His brows buoy in surprise. You wonder if anyone has ever offered a priest a pint before. 

"No, I, uh—"

He's cut off by a gruff bark, a low husk of laughter. "Don't think they drink much, kid." 

You blink, chin jerking toward Bear. "Oh, no?"

The priest offers an indulgent smile when you catch his eye. "Well, it's not outright forbidden but we tend to stay away from vices." 

"Is it a sin?" 

"No, it's not. Too much is a crutch, but all sins can be forgiven."

He opens his mouth like he's going to say more, but a low scoff from Bear cuts him off once again. 

The sound draws you back to him. Sober, still. He's only just arrived, and hasn't even ordered a drink yet, and the shadows are vibrant in his geyser gaze. The moussed hair, slightly greasy and bedraggled; the stains on his shirt that stretched taut over his broad shoulders, creasing between his pecs. The wrinkles in his forehead, the condescending lilt to his grin, left cheek pulled up in a facsimile of a smile.

You've never seen him like this before. His thumb swipes across the tip of his nose as he settles on the too-small stool, eyes burning. Darkening. 

"That's not true, is it, Father?" He sniffs, hands dropping as he leans forward. Even sitting he's still so—

Massive. Intimidating.

The priest looks slightly perturbed, but recognition bleeds in the cut of his brow. You wonder how many times people refute him when he preaches his sermons. 

"Ah," he says, shaking his head. There is sadness in his smile when he forces it. "It is true. All sins can be forgiven by God."

"All of them?" Bear questions, unkind, biting. His fingers spread over the counter, knuckles covered with deep indigo scabs sealed in congealed blood. 

"All have sinned, and all their futile attempts to reach God in His glory fail. Yet they are now saved and set right by His free gift of grace through the redemption available only in Jesus the Anointed."

Bear is quiet for a moment, eyes downcast. Then: "Romans: chapter three, verse twenty-two to twenty-five."

"You know your verses."

When his head lifts, there is an aching sense of clarity in gyre blue. His is brassy, hushed, when he speaks.  "All of them." 

"Then you know that forgiveness is—"

"Isaiah chapter sixty-four, verse six."

The priest falters momentarily, eyes swinging like a pendulum between Bear, and the bloodied knuckles he leaves on display. His eyes flash again, but adds: "Psalm chapter one hundred and thirty, verse three to five."

A flash of teeth beneath curled, wry burnt umber. He leans forward, forearms resting on the sticky surface. There is a storm in his gaze. Clouded blue. He spits the verse out like a curse. "Matthew chapter six, verse fourteen to fifteen."

It feels like being pitched in the middle of a movie. There is a thin vein of cognisance: you understand the characters, and the current tension, but everything else is murky. Unknown. You don't know what the meaning behind the verses bouncing between each other is, but there's a struggle. Bear is angry. The pastor is—

Sad. 

You don't understand. Never will, maybe, but you quietly duck your head, wiping down pint glasses as if you weren't watching a husk of a man spit out bible verses at a priest. 

"Hopefully, you remember this verse one day," he says, eyes only for Bear, and achingly sad. "Ephesians chapter four, verse thirty-two."

Bear says nothing more. He falls silent, glaring at the patchwork of stains smeared over the counter. Defeat, maybe. A battle lost. A stalemate. You don't know the meaning of the words—verses and chapters, and sin—but it makes Bear sullen, angry. Nearly apoplectic. His shoulders shake when he clenches his fist, squeezing hard enough to crack the scab on his middle finger until it lifts from his wound, and bleeds. 

The priest slides two flyers out—one for you, one for Bear—and flashes one last parting glance at him before he leaves. 

You tuck the flyer into your pocket. 

You don't know what he does with his, but it's gone when you come back from kitchens. 

Bear says nothing for the rest of the evening. His jaw clenches, eyes dip. 

He orders a shot of tequila but doesn't finish it. 

He's quiet when he walks you to your car. Declines your offer for a ride with a tight smile that's a touch too wobbly around the edges, like a bad secret or a sour taste in his mouth. 

You wonder why he even stayed at all. 

(You toss the flyer into your glovebox, and can't stop thinking about what might have happened to make him this way as you watch him fade from your rearview mirror.)

When you go home, you try to remember the verses they spat at each other, but only one sticks:

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

You hand him a box of chocolates for the holidays and watch as he blinks down at the shoddily wrapped gift.

"What's this?" 

You huff. It's not wrapped terribly. You spent nearly two hours before your shift making sure the edges looked professional and neat (a clean line, the lady on the YouTube video said, shows care, and dedication), and—

Stupid, of course. 

But you never said you weren't, and you're only just passing through your college classes, so. It's all particularly on brand, you think. Very you. Very—

Messy. Dumb. Stupid. 

"Something for a friend," you say, and then wince. A friend. How juvenile. 

You watch his throat bob, trepidation etching into your joints when he swallows, eyes creasing at the corners. His voice is gritty, sandpaper rough when he speaks: "is that what we are?"

It's not relief that floods you, but it's something. His tone is hedging. Cautious, as if he's never even uttered the word in years, and now he's faced with someone who spent thirty minutes comparing clichè Holiday designs sketched into glossy paper, and another twenty trying to decide which bow matched better.

All for a dumb box of chocolates. 

The most expensive box, of course, but still very dumb. Who gives someone who routinely tries to drown themselves in amber chocolate?

(Or anything at all for that matter.) 

You swallow thickly and shake your head with something that might be a grin. Maybe. Sort of. 

You just—

Fill space. 

"Nah, we're best friends. Thought about getting us matching necklaces, and everything to really complete the look, you know—;" the morose expression falters, eases into something that almost feels like contentment. Peace. His lips quirk, and the sight of his crooked smile makes your chest flutter. Stupid. Stupid. 

"But I didn't because I wasn't about to fight a behemoth—;" this makes his brows bounce up, mouth twitching as he fights, fights, off a smile, and you feel your heart take flight, soaring through the aether. "—For Best and then have to tell everyone I lost my first fight, ever, over some cheap sterling silver. So, I guess we'll just have to get, like, matching tattoos, or whatever…"

His brows raise again—in stupefaction, bemusement, exasperation; all of the above—and he shakes his head, huffing. 

"You talk a lot."

You fight a wince, and cover it up with a shrug. It doesn't hurt. You hear it all the time. Just grin. Bear it. 

"Someones gotta do it or we'll be sitting in awkward silence all night."

"It's a comfortable silence."

Comfortable. He thinks it's comfortable. 

Your fingers prickle. You run your index finger over the jagged line of your thumbnail, and try to resist the urge to bite it down to nothing. 

"Is that what it is?"

"It would be, but you keep talking."

"File a complaint."

His brows raise, lips curling. "Alright."

You huff, then, mocking and dry, but you wear your heart on your sleeves, and the smile that twitches on your lips gives you away. 

It's silly. Dumb. You feel like an idiot when you reach for the tip jar, a cardboard box with a slit cut at the top, patched up over the years with duct tape, and drag it closer. 

He watches you, making a small noise of question in the back of his throat when you paw around for the marker behind the counter, but you don't answer. Can't, or you'll give your grand idea away. 

You make a small noise of satisfaction when you find it. You wave it around once before bringing it to your mouth, and sink your teeth into the plastic cap, holding it steady. 

His hand jerks. "What are you—"

You pull the marker from the cap, and hold the box steady, eyes lifting to catch his gaze. Something simmers in those ocean blues, pools of glossy cerulean, and you might almost call it amusement if he was anyone else, and you weren't you, but it's soft. Curious. 

Your chin drops, smile turning wobbly around the cap still caught between your lips, and you bring the felt tip of the marker to the box. You cross out TIPS and write: file a complaint - only $5. 

You take a moment to admire your work before you turn it toward him with a grin. 

His eyes drop from yours to the box, and you see his mouth spasm in something that feels too genuine to be anything other than your first real smile. 

A flash of teeth. Lines in his cheeks. Your heart thuds, palms grow damp. 

"Got it all figured out, do you?"

"Aside from who gets Best or if we get matching tattoos, yes."

"I'm not getting a tattoo." He leans over the counter, brows creasing as he stares at you in mock severity. "But I will fight you for Best. And win." 

Another skip. Deeper into the whole. "I thought so." 

He grabs the box from your hands, and scribbles talks too much on a napkin before shoving it, and a crumbled five-dollar bill, into the slot.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to your car. Get you outta here so you can see your family."

You hide a grin behind your hand. "What family? But I guess yours is missing you, too." 

He shoves his arms inside the sleeves of his wool jacket, gaze dropping to the worn counter. 

"What family?"

It's sombre. Mood broken, yet again, by your inability to shut up.  

You don't know how to salvage the pieces. The fractured remains of what might have been a good time. 

But it's just—

Bear.  

(And you.) 

Best friends. A silly little notion he entertained when he could have told you to sod off ages ago. 

You nudge his side, and have to remind yourself to pull away from him. That this is just casual. Best friends but not really. Not even close. "Hungry? I know a place that's always open and makes the best burgers." 

He flashes a facsimile of a smile, wan and thin around the edges. "You should head home, kid. Not much for company tonight."

"Suit yourself," you murmur, slipping your hands into your pockets. You shuffle, rocking back on your heels. The silence is stifling. You wonder what part of this he finds comfortable. It lapses, and you

Fill it. 

"I think you're pretty great company, for what it's worth."

He says nothing. 

It's as close to outright rejection as you can bear. 

You press your hands into the seam of your pocket, pulling your jacket open. "Well, happy holidays, and all—"

"Best burgers in town, huh?" 

A smile creeps across your face, heart thudding in your chest. It sounds like the distant roar of the ocean, the waves crashing on the shore. 

"Yep," you pop the p and wriggle your brows. "Their secret menu item is the peanut butter bacon burger, and—"

"Peanut butter and bacon?" He says it like it's a crime. Like you've committed an act of treason, and spat in his face. 

Your grin widens. "It's disgustingly good."

"Disgusting, huh." 

"No, no—it's salty, sweet, and savoury. It's the best combination ever made. And the sweet potato fries with Chipotle mayo? Heaven sent."

"And you've lost me." 

"Did I ever even have you to begin with, or—"

The words cut a little too close to the truth, to vulnerability, and you feel heat pool under your cheeks. Embarrassment over your unintended slip-up. Your stupidity. Your inability to accept what you've been given, and stop trying to overcompensate for more, more, more—

Stop acting up; you're causing a scene!

He steps closer, hand reaching out behind you to push the old iron door open. 

There is something in his gaze you can't decipher. The shadows on his brow make you think of craters, and mountains made of lunar rock. 

"Yeah, you do," he rasps, words starchy and thick in his throat, but all you can hear is you do, you do, you do. "I need to try this disgusting burger of yours."

"Disgustingly good," you snipe back, if only because it's easier to fall into some facsimile of a rhythm where you always, always get the last word than it is to let the silence simmer. 

(To give him a chance to see the way your hand shakes around your key, or the way you have to ask him what he said—twice—because you can't hear anything over the roaring in your ears when he fits inside your car like he belongs.)

Disgustingly good burgers with friends. 

(You pat yourself on the back for only managing to get into two accidents on the way, prompting a want me to drive from him, which immediately gets turned down; but you get to the burger shack safe and sound and watch the look on his face when he bites into a peanut butter bacon burger and sweet potato fries with Chipotle mayo like it's the best meal he's ever had in months, and—

And it's enough.)

You nudge him later when you drop him off at some dingy motel by the highway, well away from the city limits but so achingly close to the bar, and say: happy holidays, Bear.

He offers something that feels like a smile. In lieu, you think. A smile in lieu. Not quite there, but almost. Almost. 

"Yeah, still think I'm pretty great company? "

"The best." 

He says nothing when he gets out of the car, leftovers tucked under his arm, but he pauses before he shuts the door, and turns to you, eyes cerulean in the pale light of the morning gloam. 

"Get home safe, kid." 

You almost say you, too. 

Instead, you bite your tongue so hard it bleeds. 

He wanders in looking like he was ripped from the pages of Surfer Magazine. Dirty blond hair perpetually curled from the sea salt, and bleached at the ends from the iodine in the water. He has the cut of a man who looks like he'd feel more comfortable in a wetsuit than the jeans and stark white t-shirt he struts in wearing.

Your first thought is: surfer idiot. 

The second is: Surfer Dude will order a shot of tequila. Blanco. 

You lean over and whisper this to Bear, who dutifully offers an indulgent quirk of his lips, before turning to catch sight of the man you'd pointed out. Targeted, he told you. You're targeting them, kid. 

When he does, you think of something funny to say but the words die on your tongue when Bear tenses, and goes completely silent. Stonewalled. 

The man wanders up with a wide grin, all teeth and bleached sand. Nonchalant. Easy. 

It's only when his eyes skirt to Bear, do you see the undercurrent of tension in his brow, resignation in the knuckles of his joints. 

They know each other. There is a history in the way they sit apart—Bear, on the lonely barstool to your right, and Surfer standing beside the one in front of you. Cut off by an angle. By you. 

You think about the man that tried before him—Buddha, the almost fight in the parking lot—and wonder how much success Surfer will have. 

"Thought I'd find you here, man." He nods, shaggy curls bouncing over his shoulders. He turns to you, flashes a smile, and orders a shot of tequila. 

You don't miss the way his eyes trail over you—your tight v-neck, the apron tied tight around your waist. The mascara and lipgloss you started putting on a week after it became clear Bear was a regular, the one you spent a considerable chunk of your paycheque on when the saleslady said it really made your eyes pop.

You wonder what he thinks, what he sees, when he drinks you in.

He. The man in your head with broad shoulders, brown hair. Bluest eyes you'd ever seen. 

The thought makes heat pools under your cheeks, vermillion scorching through your flesh. 

No. Him. Surfer. Of course. Not—

Not Bear. 

(Stupid. Stupid.)

"Keeping some pretty nice company, too, I see," he leans over, forearm resting on the countertop, and flashes another toothy grin. "Got a name or do they just call you pretty thing?"

"I don't know, Pretty Boy," you snap back, brows raising. 

"Pretty Boy, huh?" He cuts you off, gaze skirts to Bear. A smirk pulls on the corner of his mouth. "Hear that, Bear? Pretty Boy."

"Knock it off, Caulder." 

Pretty Boy—Caulder—raises his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just chatting with a nice lady who thinks I'm a Pretty Boy—"

You turn away from him, shaking your head. "Not that pretty—"

"You already said I was, so," he shrugs, eyes crinkling around the corners. "No takebacks." 

"We'll see."

"What do they call you, then?" 

"What do you think they call me?"

"Let me see," he stands, hands curling over the ledge of the counter as he leans back, eyes playfully drinking you in. They linger on your chest, lip caught between white teeth. "Hmm…"

"Looking for a name tag?" 

"No," he smirks, pulling himself forward until his torso is hunched over the sticky table. His eyes skirt down your body before flickering up, catching your gaze once more. "Just admiring the view." 

He's attractive. Boyishly cute and—begrudgingly, you have to admit—charming with his big eyes, his sleepy grins, and the wry ashen curls slicked back by his goggles. 

White teeth catch in the golden light, framed in half hearts of sun-dusted pink, and you find yourself mimicking the grin, softening under the bright gleam aimed at you. He's someone easy to get swept away with. 

"There isn't much to admire," you murmur, brushing loose strands of hair off your shoulder. Your chin drops, unable to hold the stormy grey gaze fixed on you. Hiding. 

"Oh, there is plenty to admire," he refutes, pulling his bottom lip into the seam between his teeth. He bends down, elbow dropping to the counter, and cups his cheek in the palm of his hand. "Plenty more underneath that, ahh—cute," his ashen brows raise teasingly when he stresses the word, buoying on his sunkissed forehead: "apron."

His eyes are dark, smouldering. Flirtatious.

"Right…" 

Before you can say anything more, the clang of glass knocking against wood cuts you off. 

The noise makes you jump, gaze darting to Bear. 

He matches your stare, holds it for a second, but whatever lurks in glazed blue is hidden from you. Dulled in malt, and shrouded in shadows that leak from the crevasses. 

Bear clears his throat again, drags his gaze to the man leaning on the counter. 

"What are you doing here, Caulder?" 

You can't place his tone, but there's a crackle in his voice. Laced with iciness; the same shade of glacial blue as his eyes. 

Pretty Boy acknowledges the coldness, the simmering anger, in his tone with a crooked grin. A flash of white teeth behind tawny bristles. 

He doesn't seem like the shy type—the ones who sit close to the tap, but not too close. Enough to watch you, enjoy the view, the company you offer, and (maybe) slot themselves in your line of view in the hopes that you notice them, too. That, maybe, you approach first. 

He wandered up, tousled, bleached hair bobbing with his effortless, confident gait, goggles tucked behind his ears, and keeping his fringe from falling in his eyes. Everything about him screams an abundance of effortless self-confidence. 

If he wanted to flirt with you, then he'd do it. 

He would fully commit regardless of who was present, and maybe, he'd prefer if more people were around to see him succeed. 

This isn't meant to pick you up—that might just be a convenient bonus should you show any interest in his ploy. You know this from the way he keeps glancing at Bear from the corner of his eye; clouded slate swinging like a pendulum from you—where he levels a series of weak pickup lines, and smarmy charm—and then immediately to the man sitting diagonally to where he stands. 

He's gauging his reaction. 

They know each other. This much is obvious from the greeting alone, but there is a tenuous history here, made evident by the tension, the palpable unease in the man's shoulders, and the way he gazes at Bear—warily, unsure. Testing the waters before making the jump. 

"Besides trying to spend the night with a pretty bartender?" 

He turns to you with a wink, a cheeky little grin on his lips, and then—he hesitates. There is a moment where he ducks his chin, expression clouding over with something stagnant, subdued. It lacks the playfulness of before. Sombreness taking shape, only briefly, before he tugs it back up like a mask. Fixes it back in place with the same palpable ease from before; the same slightly condescending jocose.

"Lookin' for you, man." 

He slides his forearms across the counter, making a face when his skin catches on something sticky, but it's gone. Fleeting. He straightens up, brow knotting together in something that might be anticipation but the lines in his eyes read more like grit, and determination. 

You move away from their end of the counter, giving them a modicum of privacy but that's meaningless when you can still hear their hushed conversation on the opposite side of the bar, where you pretend to busy yourself with repolishing clean glasses while they exchange awkward stilted greetings. 

How…how have you been, man?

Why are you here Caulder?

Guess no one taught you the art of Socialisation, eh, Bear? 

You can only infer meaning from their tones, their crackled demeanour around the other. Something runs deep between them—a noxious mix of bad blood, brotherhood, grudges, and familial concern—but you're no one to either of them, and privy to even less. 

You pretend you can't hear them speak (Fish Bait is askin' for ya. You said you wouldn't leave him behind, but what is this? I mean, shit, man, you can't waste away in a damned shithole while we—), or that your guts aren't churning with concern, with worry, over the taut pull in Bear's shoulders, the wrinkles in his forehead, the gyre in his gaze. A storm looms. 

But it has nothing to do with you. 

So, you feign ignorance. You duck beneath the counter, and organise the glasses, straighten up the bottles, gather the thick layer of dust along the shelves on the tip of your finger. 

It's wiped on your cute apron when you stand, and then reach for a cloth to wipe down the grimy countertop (I failed my exam. Head trauma. Brain injury. I can't—I mean, fuck, Bear. I can't go back. I can't. But you? What are you doin', bro? Why are you moping around here, gettin' a damned beer belly when you have men counting on you? When you can go back—). 

You pour drinks (Buddha is running the team. They don't need me, you all made that clear enough—). Take tips (you told me you needed me, Bear; so, this is me telling you that we need you). You tell a stray tourist where to find the infamous seafood restaurant (I lost everything, Caulder. I can't go back—). You refill the bottles (you're not Rip, man. You need to let go of him. It's been two years. Two years. She'd want you to move on—)

"I don't know what she'd want because she's dead. She's—"

You flinch when Bear raises his voice, when it carries over to you, furious and aching, and full of rot.

"I can't bury it, Caulder. I can't—" 

Working in a sleazy pub on the opposite end of a boardwalk usually brings in men like him—the ones who lean over the tacky countertop, and try their luck with glib lines meant to be suasive. Charming. It's nothing you are not used to by now, but there is a degree of difference in his mien, an insincerity that etches deep. His intrigue is surface level. 

Years of watching misery unfold in orders for cheap shots and pint glasses have taught you many things. The most notable being, of course, how to measure someone. Pick apart their reaction, their tone. 

How to target them. 

And so, when Pretty Boy leans over the counter again after raising his hands in defeat, in surrender, to Bear, and wanders over to you, a wry grin twisting on the corner of his lips, you brace yourself for the inevitable, and—

"You and Bear, huh?" 

And it's not what you expect. 

"Me…and….?"

He jerks his chin toward the steaming behemoth in the shadows, gulping down whisky like it's water, eyes locked, firm and dark, on the two of you. You fight a shiver, fingers trembling around the hose. 

She's gone. Dead. 

All this time—

You thought he was just like your father. Just like the man who patted you awkwardly on the head on the rare occasion he was ever home, and said: I'll teach you how to swim when I get back, okay? 

And then walked away. Walked out of your life, and—

"Um. He's… a customer. A friend." You wince, shoulders jerking. Juvenile. Stupid.

"A friend," he says the word like he doesn't believe you, and you get it. 

You get it because why would he, anyway? Some strange bartender on the wrong side of town who claims to be his friend, and he's supposed to just accept it? It's laughable, considering. 

The stupid tip box in the corner—now, formally known as the complaint box, an impromptu decision that has added an extra fifteen dollars to your nightly sum—catches your eye, and you think of friendship necklaces, and fights in the alley. Of burgers in your stupid car that made noises when you put it in reverse (ones that made his brows raise, his eyes—lidded and bright from booze—slide over to you as if to ask is this safe?), and smelled strongly of that dumb Michael Kors perfume you bought—a bottle you'd spent way too much money on because he leaned into the girl next to him when she sat down, glossy in Anne Klein, and mature, and a lawyer, and better, and said you smell good.  

(He went home with her that night and you spent nearly three hundred on perfume he hadn't even noticed.)

It makes you think of the itch in your palm when he offered to check under the hood because he was good at fixing things, and softly, then even better at breaking them, as if he hadn't meant for you to hear it. 

"Yeah," you say, firm, then, because you are friends. Or, you're something. But nothing doesn't wait until the very end of your shift, or walk you to your car, or eat burgers with you on Christmas when he should be with his wife, his family, or laugh (a little, barely. Kind of) at your dumb jokes. Or—

Or anything. Any of what he does. 

It's something. A crutch, maybe. A kinship with the person serving him booze each time he comes until he stumbles outside, and then wanders off somewhere. A motel, maybe. Home, possibly. 

And whatever it is, you cling to it. Hold it so tight in your grasp, your knuckles turn white from the strain, and tuck it into the folds of your heart for safekeeping. 

"Huh," he gives you a look that's different from the one before it. Cautious, guarded, but—

Hopeful, maybe. Or—

Angry. 

His eyes are stormy grey when he leans in, lips peeled back in a thin grin. "Bear needs that, but he won't let anyone else get close to him. Not right now. And we get it. We do, but," the geniality in his expression fades, tightens into something a bit more severe. "But he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend."

It punches the air from your lungs the same way the confession before did—dead, gone—and you try to stutter something into your lungs before you black out from the gnarled roots of hypoxia clotting inside your head, but all you taste is chlorine and sulphur.

You don't understand what he's saying. There is history and meaning behind his words that you can't ascertain, can't ever know; a dearth of Bear compared to a disembogue. Everything you don't know stacks up higher than the things you do, and it's a bold, blunt dressing down of your choices, failures. Inactions. 

It's dumb. No one blames the bartender for feeding an addict, and yet—

It's different. Different because you made it that way. You call him your friend to a man who has known him longer than you have, and yet, you'll go back and pour him a drink if he asks. 

A friend. How absurd. 

"Look, I don't know what you want from me—"

He shoves his hand in his pocket, and then lifts it up. It's tucked out of sight from Bear—who hasn't looked away once since Pretty Boy wandered up to you, all blond hair, smiles, and blue eyes—and it makes your throat hurt. 

A folded hundred dollar bill sits in the seam of his closed index and ring finger, one of the zeros clenched between his first knuckle. 

His smile is tight, eyes full of ghosts and shadows that look achingly familiar in jasper. "He's a… he's a good man. Been through a lot. Doesn't need this right now, you know?" 

"What… are you trying to bribe me?" 

It's hidden from view. Strategically placed. 

"Just. You know. Maybe, cut him off or something." His hand twitches, the cash waving in front of you. 

"Yeah." You murmur, words quiet. Hushed. You don't take the bill.

His jaw clenches. "We need to straighten him up. Can't do that with him here all the time. He needs—"

His tongue pokes through the seam of his cheek when he turns, glancing at Bear. Something in his expression tightens. Worry, concern. 

"Send him home, alright?" 

You make no move to accept the proffered bill, and it's not due to any sense of pride, or anything like that. You're too numbed to move. 

He gives you another look—one that is just as pitying as it is reproachful—and then shoves the folded bill into the box (file a complaint—only $5). 

You feel the weight of it in your stomach like a whisky sour. 

(Stupid, stupid—)

She's dead, you think, swallowing hard. 

Months ago, you'd said, does your wife know you spend all evening with me? 

And he'd said—

No. She doesn't. 

(Can't bury it, can't—)

"You, and uh…," he motions vaguely toward the door, eyes sharp. Steel lines in brackish water. "You and Caulder seem close."

You think of the cash stuffed in the tip jar. A hundred dollars to send him back.

"Yeah." You murmur, glancing down at the dirty tiles under the ledge of the cupboard. The ones you always forget to mop. "Kinda, I guess. He's—;" you'd know that, though, as his friend. "Nice. Um…"

He says nothing more, just nods his head a few times too many to be natural. To be anything but perturbed, irritated. You don't know why—maybe, he doesn't want you meddling in his affairs, in his personal life. 

But—

I will fight you for Best. And win. 

You don't know what to think about any of this anymore. A man who tries to drown himself at the bottom of bottles as if the answer is in forty-proof, and still wears his wedding ring but leaves, sometimes, with women who aren't her. Who stares at the screen of his phone in something that tastes so bitterly like regret and anger and helplessness, and then turns it off. Tucks it out of sight. Waves you down.

(Who, despite the hints and the signals and the blatant way you regard him, has never, not once, taken you up on any of the subtle offers you aimed at him.)

Right. Okay. 

"You alright?" 

You shrug, pull away when he reaches out. "Yeah. Good." 

He makes a noise, soft, questioning. A grumble from his chest. He makes a move to stand up, grounding out: "he say anything to you?" 

"No," you shake your head. "Nothing."

Bear slumps back in his chair, knuckles turning white. The milky bones poking through his bruised skin makes you think of that verse the priest alluded to before he left. 

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and slander be put away from you, along with all malice.

You've never seen his hands healed, his eyes clear.

(No one blames the bartender, but they could a friend.)

"Oh, um. Bear?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't… you don't have to wait for me tonight."

"Okay," he knocks his split knuckles against the wood, smiling tight. "Okay. If that's what you want."

What you want is unattainable. 

You mimic his taut smile. "Okay."

Ten, you realise that you've come to expect him nestled in the ramshackle ruins of your life. That he fits somewhere inside of these particular four walls and roof in a way that makes you ache. 

You've had attractions before. Crushes. But this edges into strange, unfamiliar territory. 

Your heart does weird things when he's around sometimes, but even curious things when he's not.

(Or, when he's leaving, and he isn't alone.)

You go to bite your nails but find broken stumps instead. The plate chewed down to nothing.

The nail on your ring finger bleeds. 

You think of his busted knuckles, and wonder if this, too, is a crutch. 

(Later, you look up how to stop chewing your nails. All of the results tell you to rub salt on them, or buy bitter nail polish, but you can't remember a time when you didn't taste the acrid burn of iodine or chlorine on your tongue already.)

Send him home, but don't—don't let him destroy himself like this.

So. You call it. 

You hand him water, and watch as something that tasted of disappointment, resignation, flashes through hazy cobalt. 

Before, you used to wonder where he went from here. A weekend spent in the clutch of another woman, in the throes of cheap beer and liquor, and then what? Home? His wife—pretty and lovely and doting—waiting for him at the door, greeting him after his extended business trip? Maybe a face peering out from between her legs, unsure of the man they're supposed to call dad who is rarely ever home, and on the off-chance that he is, reeks of malt and barley. 

It always cut too close to home. Their house becomes the same shade as your own. The faceless figure lingering on the periphery takes your shape. Your mum in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes rimmed red from the tears that haven't stopped steaming down her raw, chafed cheeks since you were seven, and realised that the man who sometimes stopped by to visit was supposed to be your father. 

You think of that little, faceless person, and then of yourself. Selfish. Detestable. Everything you said you wouldn't be, and yet—

You cut him off, watch him stumble out the door with a woman who isn't his wife. Watch him take a little piece of you with him. 

 Bear doesn't show. 

Week one, two, three. 

It doesn't matter, not really. He's just a customer who reeks of malt and bad choices, who has bags under his eyes, and wrinkles on his forehead. Who drowns himself in the corner each night as he tries to fight off the demons he keeps provoking. 

Who's hands are always scabbed, torn. Like he spends his time punching the concrete, or ivory jaws just to feel something outside of his own anger. 

He's a man on the verge of implosion. 

Betelgeuse; a red giant. 

Stay away from the man who stinks of nitroglycerin, and sparks a match too close to his dynamite-soaked skin. 

You try to take his own advice—bury it—but you can't bury anything in muskeg. 

You think of the man who had peanut stained on his beard when you finally convinced him to take a damned bite of his burger. Who told you he used to go to church every day when you asked him how he knew so much about bible verses, but he couldn't face his God right now with all this malice in his heart. 

Who confessed that he didn't actually mind pop music when his teammate— Buck —used to play it on the compound just to piss them off, and added some of the songs to the playlist he made. 

I'm not a dinosaur, he huffed when you asked if he still used Windows Media Player to listen to his songs. I use YouTube. 

He gave you a taut smile, like he'd won something in that, and you tried to pretend you didn't want to kiss him senseless while Johnny Cash played in the background of the pub. 

He hates tomatoes but doesn't mind ketchup. Likes, even, tomato soup. Used to run track in high school, and knew when he was seventeen that he was going to get married the moment he turned eighteen, have four kids and join the SEALs. He doesn't tell you how many of those came true. 

He confessed to eating a whole box of pop tarts in one sitting when he came home from a mission. Can easily demolish half a pizza to himself, and actually enjoys the Bachelor whenever the girls would get together and watch it at his house. 

He used to think about the men he lost every day, but now he doesn't. Not after Buck. He can't because then he'll never stop, and he won't be able to bring the men behind him home. Wouldn't, he amends it after a moment of silence. Wouldn't be able to bring them home. 

Doesn't regret anything he never did. He says this with shadows in his eyes, and the ghost of something bitter in his tone. An old ache. An old wound. 

He's funny—awkward, halting, as it is—and charming. Wandering this precarious line between severe, intimidating, and— dorky. Kind of. Under the glaze of alcohol, and when he smiled wide, full teeth, and his cheeks wrinkles. Or when you said something stupid, he'd tip his chin down, forehead creasing as he stared at you in mocking disapproval. 

He's distant, standoffish; gruff and surly, and stubborn, too much of the All-American Dream wrapped up in machismo and vulnerability disguised as hyper-aggression but it fades into nothing when he laughs, and his throat clicks, wet and sticky. Almost a snort but not really. 

Nuanced. Multifaceted. 

You told him he was interesting once and there was pink on his cheeks, and a wry twist to his lips when he'd brought the bottle up to his mouth, hiding the soft snort that slipped past. 

("You need to get out more if you think I'm interesting." 

"I get out plenty."

"That so? With who? I'll call up my friends in NCIS and see if they have anything on them—"

"You're overprotective, too."

"Only to the ones I care about."

"And sweet."

"I'm not sweet."

"The sweetest." 

"I'm not—")

The glimpse you've gotten is a small stream that bleeds into a river. One dammed by circumstances, and tragedy, and you want to cross it so badly that your fingers ache with the urge to pick at the logs that hide it from you. 

You want to know what he looks like when he is loose and relaxed around family and friends. When he cheers for his dumb football team, and stumbles home late at night after hazing a new recruit into drinking beer from a bong, and carrying around a blowup doll ("it's tradition," is all he said when you blinked at him. "It's sacred;"). You want to know what he sounds like when he's trying to be funny without feeling the pinch of talons, grief and anger and resentment, digging into his flesh. Or what he sounds like completely sober. 

You want to listen to Johnny Cash (gotta show you the good stuff, kid. The classics) in his truck, hold his stupid hand, and kiss him whenever you want because it's something you're allowed to do, something that isn't stuck in the confines of your yearning. You want him. Want all of him. 

Want. Want. Want. 

It's—

An infestation of rot, and idealism. You're making him into something he isn't, and thinking too much about what he's not. 

But the bar feels emptier when he isn't here. The walks to the car are lonelier when you're by yourself at nearly four in the morning with nothing but the steady swell of the ocean, and your yearning to fill the barren silence that crushes you, but you've spent too long talking to yourself, and now that you had the taste of an audience, you can't go back what it was like before. 

You should be happy. Happy for him, for Pretty Boy. This should mean that he's moved on, decided that stasis in whisky, and a dingy bar that even the health inspectors have given up on a long time ago is not what he needs in his life right now, and that he's getting better. That he's healing. 

But you think of the look on his face when he stared at you from across the counter, eyes reflected in the clear glass of water, and you know—just like you think you know him—that he isn't. That this isn't the end. That he's found somewhere else to go, something else to mend the aches inside that never abate. 

He didn't decide to move on. It wasn't his choice—it was yours, Caulders. It was the weight of the bill in something that used to be sacred, a place where Bear would pen things down in scratchy writing about your perceived failings— talks too much, shorts the shots all the damn time, can't pour a pint to save her life, has awful taste food, terrible taste in music —and you'd dump them into your rucksack at the end of the night, taking them home with you to lay out on a piece of construction paper as part of an ongoing project in yearning. 

It wasn't his choice, and you know better than anyone else what that means, but still: you hope. You cling to that little piece of stupidity (your very brand) that tries to convince you everything is fine. That you're not complicit in watching a man moulder in grief and agony, and that this is somehow alright. That this tightly webbed knot, tangled and frayed, will somehow unspool itself despite knowing first hand that it won't. 

Not until you tug the strings and unravel the weaved pain and loss on your own terms, and of your own volition. 

But what else can you do? 

No one held your hand when you lost your dad, but God, you wish they did. You wished someone was there to help you, but you also know that it wouldn't have mattered anyway. 

You can force someone to let go by hammering their fingers until the bones shatter, and the tight grip they keep on it all releases because their fingers are pulpy mush. 

You know better. 

In the weeks that he's gone, absent, you oscillate between trying to convince yourself you made the right choice, and trying to pretend that he's still just a friend.

(It's when you wander out from the back of the pub and see someone sitting in his chair—elation, hope, and then the crushing sense of disappointment when the man is too small, too scrawny to be Bear—do you realise what it all means. 

—a sickness.)

Eleven, you get a kiss. Blistering. Intense. Your head cracks against the brick when he pushes himself flush into your body, hand curved over your cheek, jaw. 

(Three days later, you get heartbreak. 

Two weeks, you shatter.)

You have other things to worry about than a man like him. Dangerous. Deadly. The kind that will suck you in like a riptide and drag you out into the open ocean without any care or concern for how you're supposed to tread the high seas. 

He's poison in plaid. A bad decision in the scar tissue, and bloodied knuckles. The bags under his eyes are warning signs for you to stay away.

The ring on his finger. The women who are not his wife. 

All of the bad, the ugly stacks up. 

But—

Even his hideous crutches can't hide his goodness beneath the layer of resentment and grime. 

It starts when he splits his knuckles on the teeth of a man who won't take no for an answer, and you see him find control, balance, and equilibrium, in violence. 

It starts there. And it ends, too. 

(But you're a glutton for pain, and you help him the only way you know how.)

[koyagifs]

shattered trust

pairing: Ravenclaw!Hongjoong x Hufflepuff!reader au: harry potter genre: angst | fluff | Summary: as the years go by, you never noticed the dark side of your lover.

Warning(s):

Some cursing, their ages will be aged up a bit! This fic is not meant to reflect how Ateez are in real life. This is a fanfic.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14

st masterlist | ateez masterlist

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Today was the day.

The Yule Ball.

Your heart felt heavy as you eyed yourself in the mirror, the dress flowing beautifully on your body. Your mind continuously going back to Hongjoong. Each time you tried to talk to Hongjoong, he would continue avoiding you. The guys have even tried to speak to him, but nothing came from it. Mingi was the only one who would tell you to drop it, as it's not worth the heartache that's already in your heart. As you circled your room, your heart thumping against your chest, you began to bit your nails.

" surely he'll still show up" you mumbled.

Looking at yourself in the mirror once more, you nodded your head, trying to hype yourself up. "Okay, deep breath," you whispered to yourself.

You took a moment to adjust your hair, brushing it back and letting it cascade in soft waves. You reached for your jewelry box, carefully selecting a pair of delicate silver/ gold earrings that sparkled just like the stars you hoped would shine down on you at the ball.

Looking at the ring that Hongjoong had placed on your finger, you felt some hope before you made your way down to the Great Hall. Your heels clicking down the hall, the loud thumps of your heartbeat drowning any other sound out. Taking a peek from the corner, you see everyone else but not Hongjoong. Disappointment and dread filled you as you scanned the hall.

You took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising anxiety in your chest. The Great Hall was a kaleidoscope of color, laughter, and light, but all you could focus on was the empty space where Hongjoong should be.

“Come on, Y/N,” you whispered to yourself, forcing a smile. “He might just be running late.”

As you began your step down the stairs, Jongho was the first to notice you. Nudging San beside him, their jaw dropping as they all began to notice you. Seonghwa and Mingi were the first to meet you by the stairs, their arm held out for you to hold onto.

You took their hands, feeling a rush of warmth from their support. "You both look amazing!" you said, forcing a grin despite the anxious flutter in your stomach.

Mingi beamed back at you. " you look gorgeous yn "

Yeosang was beside him, nodding his head. Wooyoung looked around, confusion built on his face. " where Hongjoong? Isn't he your date?"

You felt your stomach drop at Wooyoung’s question, the excitement of the moment faltering slightly. “I... I haven’t seen him yet,” you admitted, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Don’t worry,” Seonghwa said quickly, sensing your unease. “He’s probably just running late. It’s still early!”

You forced a smile, but the unease lingered. You scanned the hall again, catching glimpses of familiar faces, but no sign of Hongjoong. Mingi leaned closer, his expression reassuring. “Remember what I said little bader?”

You nodded your head, " I'll stand Mina up for you. Understand?"

" mingi, you don't -"

Mingi shook his head, " If Hongjoong doesn't show up, i'll be honored to have the first dance with you"

Your heart warmed at Mingi's words, but the uncertainty still lingered. As all 8 of you enter the Great Hall, you continued to look around. But with every passing moment, you found it harder to focus on anything but Hongjoong's absence. You fiddled with the ring on your finger, recalling the moment he had slipped it on and whispered how much he cared for you. You glanced around the hall again, your heart aching with hope and uncertainty.

Just as you were about to sink into your thoughts, the doors to the hall swung open, the champions all walking in with their dates. Your breath caught in your throat when you noticed him standing by a few unfamiliar faces. There he was—Hongjoong. He looked stunning in his formal robes, his hair styled just right, and that familiar spark in his eyes that made your heart race.

But then you noticed—he wasn’t alone. Mina stood beside him, her laughter ringing out as they chatted. The sight twisted in your chest, a mix of relief at seeing him and an unsettling pang of jealousy. As he scanned the room, your eyes locked for just a moment. A smile spread across his face, and you felt a flicker of warmth, but it quickly faded as he turned his attention back to Mina.

Mina noticed where Hongjoong was looking, a smirk plastered on her face she tugged on his arm to go somewhere else in the room.

You felt your heart sink as you watched them move away, the joy of seeing Hongjoong quickly overshadowed by the ache of jealousy. The laughter and music of the Great Hall felt distant as you tried to shake off the tightening knot in your stomach.

Seonghwa must have sensed your shift in mood. He leaned closer towards Mingi, whispering before Mingi noticed your frozen stance. Mingi was quick to be by your side, spinning you around to now face him. You looked at him, a sad smile placed on your face as tears streamed down. Mingi was quick to wipe them away.

" don't cry little badger. Once the champions dance, lets dance hm?"

You sniffled, grateful for Mingi's warmth as he brushed the tears away. His gentle teasing brought a flicker of light to the moment. “I’m trying,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey, no ‘trying’ allowed. You’re going to dance with me like there’s no tomorrow,” Mingi said, his smile wide and genuine, his eyes sparkling with concern.

Mingi gently pulled you away from the group, his touch light yet firm, guiding you through the softly glowing hall filled with students swirling in their elegant robes. The enchantment of the Yule Ball buzzed around you, but your mind had been elsewhere all evening. You hadn’t even fully processed what was happening until you found yourself beside him, away from the noise of the crowd.

“YN,” Mingi’s deep voice broke through your thoughts as he looked at you, his eyes soft and warm. “You really do look gorgeous tonight,” he said, his words filled with sincerity.

You smiled up at Mingi, a soft warmth filling your chest. Despite everything, his presence grounded you, making the weight of the evening just a little lighter. His gentle encouragement made you feel like, even if the night hadn’t gone as planned, you still weren’t alone.

The soft strains of the music began to fill the room, signaling the start of the champions’ dance. The crowd parted, giving the dance floor to the champions and their dates, and you watched as they twirled under the enchanted ceiling. The floating candles cast a warm glow, and for a brief moment, you were distracted by the magic of it all.

But then, without thinking, your eyes drifted around the room again. You told yourself you wouldn’t do this, but you couldn’t help it. Your gaze searched the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of Hongjoong. Maybe he’d be standing near the edge of the ballroom, or maybe he’d notice you and come over, realizing his mistake. But deep down, you knew better.

And there he was, just across the room—dancing with Mina.

Your heart sank, the sight like a punch to your gut. Hongjoong twirled her effortlessly, a smile on his face as they moved in sync with the music. It was a sight you had imagined for yourself not long ago, a fantasy that now felt as distant as the stars above you. He didn’t even glance in your direction, completely engrossed in his dance partner. You felt a lump forming in your throat, but you swallowed it down, refusing to let it show.

Mingi, ever perceptive, noticed your eyes lingering on them. His hand gently squeezed yours, pulling you back to the present. “YN,” he said softly, his voice pulling you out of the spiral of thoughts. “Don’t let him ruin this night for you.”

You forced your eyes away from Hongjoong, turning back to Mingi. He gave you a small, reassuring smile, and without a word, he led you onto the edge of the dance floor. His hand slipped around your waist, the other gently taking your hand in his.

“Dance with me,” he whispered, the music swelling around you. “Even if just for a little while.”

For a moment, you hesitated, but then you let yourself fall into the rhythm of the music, moving with Mingi. His steps were careful and steady, and though the ache in your chest didn’t fade completely, there was a sense of comfort in being there with him. He spun you gently, the warmth of his presence reminding you that tonight didn’t have to be defined by the person who wasn’t by your side.

And so you danced, letting the music guide you, grateful for Mingi’s quiet understanding.

[lunarflux]

⥈ 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗, 𝖕𝖙 𝟏 [𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖗𝖊𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖚𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖌𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘] 

Aemond Targaryen x Reader/fem!OC | Daemon Targaryen x Reader/fem!OC 

X: There is a dark soul in the Red Keep who toys with the strings of fate and tampers with the bonds it holds. She frays at its edges, knowing that with a simple word she could sever it entirely. Aemond has found a soul that mirrors his, and she fills the cracks in his core with molten gold. Though he isn't the only one who craves the solace she provides - or the pleasure she withholds.

Note: This has been edited into third person omniscient, and the word count has been doubled. I think it's safe to say I should stick to what I know lol

Word count: 2,2k

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It was a curious silence that fell over the Small Council whenever she arrived. Queen Alicent who, even in her youth, never looked at Lethira without suspicion eyed her as she sat down, claiming the seat that normally would have been claimed by Lord Corlys. Her lips formed into a bloodless line. 

The pangs of sour memories had yet to cease their needle-like assault on Alicent’s chest. Every time Lethira would appear, all she saw was the same grin – the same, conniving smirk – that plagued her youth. Rhaenyra was her friend, but Lethira was far from it. And while their interactions back then were never purposefully unpleasant, it was almost as if Lethira knew things, had intentions, that Alicent was always painfully aware of. For whatever reason, Rhaenyra was not. And if she was, she either ignored it or welcomed it. Alicent never knew which. 

Alicent saw. It was impossible not to. She saw the inevitable effect Lethira had on those around her. They all turned. They all stared. The attention could have been ignored, but it was the way her childhood ghost somehow made the room turn cold while setting it ablaze with her words. No one knew how to challenge her, for when they tried, it was in vain. She was too cunning. She held thoughts and opinions that silenced even the Hand of the King.  

"Lethira," Alicent said her name with a heavy sigh. Regardless of her worries, she still found a way to hold herself strong. She would not have a cold memory from her youth plague her life as a queen. "I understand Small Council is still very new to you. However - " 

"- I am well aware of when the Council meets, Your Grace." Lethira's response was quick and sharp, not with the preciousness of adolescence, but with the certainty of a dark chill. "I am here as a courtesy to inform you I cannot stay today. I have other pressing matters to attend to." 

"And what -" 

“Perhaps, you should consider installing one of your sons in my place of this Council if you are in need of a body to warm a seat.” Lethira cocked her head to the side, her legs crossed one over the other in a manner that allowed her black gown to expose the faintest flash of skin. She loved these silent battles with Alicent. The way her brow would twitch with concern. It was the same, even back then. 

Alicent had no time to argue before she stood with a facetious curtsy.

It had not been long since Lethira's arrival that she started to pick away at the many shadows that haunted the Red Keep. Some shadows, however, followed closer than others. 

Daemon, sly as ever, always seemed to be around every corner with his signature grin. If Lethira spoke and consequently removed the tongue of a curt Lord with a single word, he would smile again. He kept his distance – only barely. And when he didn’t, the conversations always teetered on something she recognized as playful teasing. It was a foolish attempt to understand her (and her motives), and yet she welcomed it all the same. 

How entertaining. 

“Avoiding your duties again, little serpent,” Daemond appeared just as the doors to the Council shut behind her. He tilted his head towards her with his eyes narrowed as if he still had not grown used to the image of Lethira as a woman and not a girl. “Lord Corlys might think you absent in his place.” 

Lethira enjoyed the way he looked at her. Yes, it was a face and an expression she recalled from her youth, but it was also the same way he looked at Rhaenyra. Whether he was aware she saw it (even if Rhaenyra didn’t), she didn’t care.  

“Alicent has done her duty to keep me mute. She needs a seat filled and sees no use for my opinion no matter how rooted in logic it may be.” 

“So, I am correct. Loose loyalty does not suit a Lady, Lethira.” 

She leaned in close until the scent of leather and sea salt trickled over her cheeks. Daemon didn’t back down, maintaining his composure in the face of her firm stance. Lethira parted her lips, just enough for him to see her tongue run across her teeth.  

“Am I still a ‘little serpent’ to you, Daemon?” 

There was a flicker – only barely noticeable – to flash across his face. A young Rhaenyra challenged him in similar ways, but as the years passed, there had been no other to speak to him in a way that felt like it was laced with fire. The low rumblings of her taunting turned his lips upward, and cast his gaze down to exposed flesh below her collar. Supple and rosy, he wondered if she tasted just as sweet. 

Lethira took two steps back with her hands folded behind her back. She tilted her chin down, looking up at him through midnight lashes. “There is no loyalty in that council. Only rigid greed.” 

“And do you not also feel the euphoric sting of greed?” Daemon chuckled. The scent of her sweet perfume beckoned him closer, but he stood firmly. “I thought I knew you better.” 

“I do not feed the greed of others, my Prince,” she whispered, lips puckering ever so slightly. “Only my own. I suppose you and I are alike in that way.” 

“Always the fire-starter.” He raised his head. “You always were a dangerous one.” 

“One of us must hold the flame to the throne. Now that the Princess shares your marital bed, I see that your light has dimmed. She always did pull your attention. Whether or not I burned just as brightly back then will always be a mystery to you. I am not snuffed out so easily.” Lethira's gaze shifted. “Unless you believe that your nephew carries the torch where you cannot. Maybe his flame matches mine.” 

There it was again – the flicker – except now it was the distinct sign that she'd hit a nerve. Daemon’s jaw tightened, and his grin faltered. He hated mentions of Aemond, and Lethira knew. The one-eyed prince was the only other shadow she cared to notice, and whatever attention she paid to him irked Daemon in ways that amused her. It wasn’t a matter of seeing who would fight for her. She wanted to know who would break beneath her pretty fingers.  

Who would break, who would break first, and who would shatter. 

The trysts with Daemon never ended with a farewell. By now Lethira grew used to simply walking past him, and always, she felt his eyes follow like a predator learning the habits of small prey. 

This was the new game, and she learned to play it well. 

⥈⥈⥈⥈⥈⥈ 

The hours of politics wore Lethira down just enough to the point where her mask faltered. It was only then that she excused herself, and she always managed to evade her escorts no matter how hard they tried to follow. She walked slowly throughout the Keep. The moon rose high above the courtyard, and the Lords and Ladies retreated to their chambers. It was only the King’s Guard that remained, and when their eyes traced the line of her waist, she would glance – only once – and force them back to attention. 

Lethira walked on until she found the room she often found the most solace – or perhaps, the most entertainment. 

Aemond stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him as he looked out over the bay. His silver hair glinted in the moonlight, his posture rigid as always. Lethira leaned lazily against a marble column, watching him with a sly smile—like a dragon on watch that knew exactly how much her presence unsettled him. 

Another game.  

This was of a different kind than the one she played with Daemon. So different, and yet so much sweeter. Aemond’s silent anguish and curiosity tasted like liquid frost while Daemon’s felt like a blistering fire. Where Daemon’s stare followed her in the open, Aemond’s followed in secret. She wanted to tug at him if only to see where he’d bend. Where would he fold – would he fold at all? The fall was inevitable. From her brief time in King’s Landing, Lethira observed what others overlooked. He was far more pensive than most, and he was seen as strong enough to be left alone by the Queen. 

What a waste, she thought. He was yet another dragon trapped in a prince’s mortal cage. Something about his latency intrigued her. 

"Still brooding, Aemond?" Lethira teased with her voice only loud enough for him to hear. "You'll bear a hole in a moon if you stare at it any harder." 

He turned his head slightly. "And what brings you skulking out here, Lethira? Tired of the revelry already?" His voice was low, calm—dangerously so. With Aemond, every word felt like a sword piercing the fragile veil of fabric on skin, honed to precision. 

She stepped closer, her silk gown rustling softly against the stone. "You of all people would recognize a skulk. I needed a moment away from dull courtiers and their duller politics." 

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk before disappearing back into his stoic facade. "Funny. I thought you thrived on politics. And the subtle prying of men’s faults." 

"I do," she admitted, her gaze flickering over him like a cat sizing up its prey. "But I find this much more interesting." 

Aemond shifted, his intense gaze locking onto hers. "Do you enjoy this? Pretending like our meetings are a coincidence?" 

"Perhaps it is just a coincidence. Isn’t that why I have your favor," she countered smoothly, closing the distance between them. "You like danger. And you crave control. It’s the uncertainty of knowing it is I who has the control that unnerves you." 

A muscle in his jaw tightens, but his eye never left her, circling over the hint of a flush over her cheeks. "You think you know me so well." 

"I do," she murmured. "Because I find myself... Intrigued. By you." Her voice softened, and in that brief moment, the mask slipped—just a little before she caught herself. The rigid wall returned quickly. "I simply wonder if we are allies... or enemies." 

Aemond’s breath caught—just for a second, almost imperceptible. "And what would you have us be?" he asked quietly, his voice edged with something dangerous. Desire, perhaps. Or regret. 

Lethira leaned in, lips brushing just close enough to be felt without touching. "Depends," she whispered. "What are you willing to give me?" 

His hand snapped out, catching her wrist—not harshly, but with enough force to make her heart skip. For a moment, they were locked in a silent standoff, the tension between them a live wire.  

His grip said, You won’t control me.  

Her unflinching stare replied, Watch me try. 

And then, just as quickly, he let her go. 

“Do you grow tired of toying with my uncle already?” The venom flowed freely in Aemond's voice. Just as Daemon detested his name, Aemond loathed Daemon’s. The constant push and pull over – not only the power in the realm – but over who had the least amount of stakes in this game with Lethira. Aemond wouldn’t dare sit to wonder how invested he was – or if he was invested at all. Something about her and the way she spoke unnerved him, but the rumblings in his chest told him this was not the fear he had grown to tame into force. This was something entirely different. 

“And why does my time with Daemon bother you so?” Lethira hummed a low sigh as she slowly circled around him. “He sees me as the image of the girl Rhaenyra was, only now a woman. My time away from King’s Landing allowed me to grow. Not change. I do not control the urges of a tempted man. You give me too much credit.” 

"You think too highly of yourself, Lethira," Aemond murmured, though his eye lingered on her a moment too long. 

She stopped in front of him and tilted her head, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Perhaps. Or maybe you don’t allow yourself to think highly enough of me." 

Aemond stepped back, giving her space—but not before brushing his fingers along hers, the briefest, most deliberate of touches. It was a warning. And a promise. She wondered if that was all the indulgence he could stand to allow himself. That was all he allowed himself to give to her – a touch. How long before he crumbled before her and gave more? 

"You’ll have to work harder than that," Aemond whispered. 

Lethira's smile deepened, the challenge sparking something electric in her veins. "Good," she purred. "If you made it too easy, I would’ve grown tired of you." 

Aemond gave her one last look, something dark and unfathomable swirling in his gaze. And then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving her standing alone beneath the stars. 

But she didn’t mind. Not one bit. Because she knew—this is just the beginning. 

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is the first modernist home built in the UK and it is classy. The 1920s home in Amersham, UK has 6bds and offers over £3M/$3.809M are being accepted.

Beautiful entrance hall. The home also has elements of Art Deco. It looks like the frosted glass doors slide shut to make walls. I love the art deco lights above the doorways.

If you don't like the tree in the middle, use the fountain. You'll see that the ceiling goes up into the 2nd fl.

The home just gives off sleek, classy vibes. In this sitting room, the hearth is metal. I've never seen that before.

The library/den/music room has rich wood cabinetry and I like the way the the fireplace looks. It also has a metal hearth and mirrored columns.

The dining room is definitely art deco and has gold leaf-look walls.

The kitchen is ultra modern. It looks like they painted the kitchen bright white and it drowns the color in the photos.

In these older photos, you can see the color better- the cabinets are light blue and the appliances are chef's quality.

The home contains several reception rooms. This one is large and bright. It appears to have an art area in the corner. It would make an amazing art studio.

On the 2nd floor, this is the opening you see in the entrance hall. Isn't this a unique architectural feature in a room? I would think that it would be out in the hall.

There's a bedroom wing. This may or may not be the primary bedroom.

This is an empty bedroom suite with bath. Great built-ins.

This smaller bedroom is a guest room.

Look at the bas relief wall art behind the tub.

And, here's another large reception room.

Terraces and patios around the exterior of the home.

Very large terraces on the home.

Stairs down to a pond water feature. The grounds are park-like.

https://www.aucoot.com/buy/?

[nukacourier]

Another thing with James and Arcade. Again I didn't know how to end it so it stops abruptly. Might actually continue it later though

This time some warnings are in place, mainly for mentions suicidal ideation, head trauma, and drinking

Writing under the cut. Feel free to tell me your thoughts :]

James sat, ruminating within his own pained head, not even taking in the breathtaking view of the early morning expanse of glittering red and gold desert stretched before him.

He hardly even noticed as his friend approached him, only actually noticing his presence as the sound of his footsteps crunching over the sand finally became louder than the persistent ringing in his ears.

"I'm awake." He said in his normal monotone voice, crouching besides James with an accompanying crunch of his knees and a wince on his bespectacled face.

"Isn't it a little early to be drinking?"

He pointed out the half-empty whiskey bottle James held loosely in his fingertips by the neck.

James pouted slightly and swirled the bottle in his hand, watching the contents roll around inside like an amber typhoon.

"Yeah, probably."

His words rang out more tired than slurred as he spoke, and to Arcade, his face most certainly mirrored this as his black eyes seemed dull and more sunken in than usual, and a melancholy shadow rested over them as his brow was kept closely furrowed.

But James completely ignored his worrying and instead simply unscrewed the lid of his drink and threw back another swig.

He avoided looking Arcade in the face despite knowing he was staring at him closely as he normally did—he knew he currently wasn't sober enough to just brush him off if he had to physically face him. He wasn't entirely sure why, but something about Arcade's face often made James feel like he could tell him anything, despite knowing by now that being too open towards anyone you hardly know is a very bad idea.

Thankfully, however, when Arcade caught his attention again, it wasn't to worryingly nag him or press him to open up, something he often did that James just as often tried to ignore as he didn't wish to dwell on his own issues.

"Uh...sorry to ask, but do you mind sharing?"

He lazily gestured to the bottle in James' hand. James obliged and passed it over to him without any verbal acknowledgement.

Arcade took a swig, and James noticed from the corner of his eye that he hardly even flinched despite swallowing down burning liquor.

He turned his head to look at him, resting his chin in the palm of his hand as he was the one observing Arcade for once.

"Wow." He finally said after Arcade finished downing his rather long drink.

Arcade looked at him, puzzled as he screwed the lid back on and handed it back over to James.

"Wow?" He repeated James like a confused echo after he wiped the corner of his mouth with his coat sleeve.

"Yeah. You drink like a pro. Or an alcoholic. Same difference." James rambled, cocking his head to the side as they both continued to stare at each other.

"Oh, well. I've been drinking for a while...you get used to it." Arcade mumbled awkwardly, turning away from James to stare forward, and James couldn't help but wonder if the growing blush on his face was from the alcohol or embarrassment.

He smiled briefly, but was quickly plunged back into the throes of despair as a hot jolt of pain spread through the front of his skull as if he were being shot all over again.

He winced and set the bottle against his temple, as if the lukewarm glass would somehow help calm the raging pain.

Arcade had noticed when he heard James draw in a breath of pain, and leaned forward to stare at him with worry apparent in every line of his face.

"You okay?" He asked, but James didn't quite hear as the pain fogging his mind made his voice sound a million miles away.

As soon as his words registered, James opened his mouth to respond, but no words came as his vision blurred before blacking out entirely. Everything felt still.

. . .

To James, it only felt like a moment of silent darkness, but as his vision faded in and his head started throbbing again, he was greeted by an unfamiliar darkened room, and no light shone in through the crack under the door, despite him recalling it being morning just a moment ago.

He sat up with a groan, hand glued to his aching head as he scanned the room.

It was dark, dusty, and messy. If it wasn't for the bed and scattered piles of clothes and other miscellaneous belongings, all the crates and empty bedframes would've made him assume it was simply a storage room.

The stone walls and wooden floor seemed to indicate he was back at the Old Mormon Fort, despite him and Arcade leaving Freeside just shy of two days ago.

"Ah, good to see you're awake, then. That was, uh, worrying. To say the least."

James jumped, startled as he heard Arcade's voice beside him. He had to turn to look at him since his right eye was still blurry from the pain localized on that side of his head.

He blinked a couple of times, letting his mind settle before he could pull any coherent words from it.

"It's normal. Happens sometimes." He mumbled nonchalantly, using his free hand to scratch his chest awkwardly.

"It is certainly not normal to pass out from a headache and be comatose for nearly an entire day, James."

Arcade's words were sharp, but James could tell it came from a place of worry. He vaguely remembered someone who spoke in a similar way when feeling worried over his well-being, but couldn't place a finger on who.

He gave up trying to search his scrambled memories with a sigh, feeling a deep sadness ebbing in his chest despite his headache starting to finally recede. He lowered his hands and turned to face forward and away from Arcade's face that embodied a mix of annoyance and worry.

"Yeah, I know. But I honestly don't care at this point. If it kills me in one way or another, so be it. Shouldn't have even survived in the first place."

He muttered bitterly, only the very first part of his mumbling being directed towards Arcade—the rest just happened to tumble out of his mouth as the pain and confusion in his head seemed to implant a bitterness.

"Why would you say that?"

Arcade leaned in, his voice wavering as if he was genuinely distraught hearing this.

James felt a pang of guilt stab his heart and simply remained silent.

Why did he say that?

He looked down at his hands and absent-mindedly interlocked his fingers together as he tried to pull thoughts together.

But it seemed a hopeless effort, which made his feelings of loss far more clear, in some cruel form of irony.

He felt his grief at his loss of self rising in his throat, and he closed his eyes as tight as he could and his face scrunched up with it.

Letting out a long, drawn out sigh, James hoped it would help ease the weight of his feelings that plagued him.

But it didn't, and instead it simply seemed to give the rowdy emotions inside him permission to leave his body in the form of tears glistening down his freckled cheeks as his entire body trembled.

Feelinf weak and hopeless, he crumpled under his woes as he realized he couldn't hide it anymore.

He slouched over and he hid his face behind trembling hands to stifle the sobs that wracked through his entire body. His chest heaved and shuddered with every choking cry that came out of him.

James only fell silent and managed to choke back his tears with a cough and a splutter as he felt Arcade's bony, gentle hand rest lightly on his shoulder.

The warmth of this small, caring gesture slowly spread through his body and he eventually stopped sobbing altogether, although he still kept his face hidden and the occasional quiet, lagging sob made his body tremble.

"I don't know who I am anymore." He managed to whisper hoarsely, his hands sliding off his face and falling heavily back into his lap.

His eyes burned, and he blinked past the sting of lingering tears as he turned and looked at Arcade.

Upon seeing his face, soft with sympathy other than his eyebrows knitted tightly together with worry, he felt the words pouring out of his heart before he could even stop it.

"Just—the pain was bad enough. But it's so bad now, I can't...I can't remember anything. I feel like even the small pieces I was clinging to are gone, so I just don't see the point. It's gone. I'm gone. What if next I forget my name, who I am...I already feel like I'm heading that way..." He trailed off after stammering out his rush of emotions, staring back down at his hands, feeling just as hopeless as before.

"I'm scared."