#rare chandeliers

[hisllashirts]

Double Drop with MyMainManPat

Rare Chandeliers: Action Bronson & The Alchemist team up on one of the dopest and meanest mixtapes ever.

Straight Outta Los Santos: Grove street runs southside Los Santos. A GTA x NWA mashup.

U can get both designs now on MyMainManPat for $22 only thru the next week.

Always a joy to collab with Pat. Always bring out the best of my work and the final product is just masterful.

[blueiscoool]

Albert Cheuret A Rare “Hérons” Chandelier

Patinated bronze, alabaster. Impressed Albert Cheuret. 30½ in. (77.4 cm) drop. 30 in. (76.2 cm) maximum diameter. Circa 1925.

[inkbotkowalski]

I picked up one of my swords again after ages and swung it around a bit and only hit the chandelier twice... and gods it felt GREAT. now I just have to either move stuff around in my apartment or go outside after dark so I can practice again without destroying any furniture

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here  

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks. 

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.” 

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out. 

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask. 

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says. 

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world. 

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation. 

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person. 

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about. 

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.” 

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him. 

“He was nice,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?” 

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?” 

“You’ll be alright?” 

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands. 

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare. 

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought. 

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage. 

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little. 

“Darling.” 

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand. 

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says. 

Me, you think. 

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.” 

“You didn’t,” the woman says. 

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.” 

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense. 

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says. 

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.” 

“Hardy-har.” 

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks. 

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?” 

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.” 

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.” 

“Gentleman and the tramp.” 

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.” 

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape. 

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth. 

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water. 

What the fuck? 

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down. 

Your head races with hurt feelings. 

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman. 

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees. 

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched? 

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is. 

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.” 

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky. 

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in. 

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal. 

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing. 

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse. 

She was unbelievable. 

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?” 

“What?” 

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.” 

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.” 

“I didn’t mean to come out here.” 

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?” 

“Scavenging for food.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.” 

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…” 

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones. 

“I love you, too,” you say. 

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.” 

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…” 

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable. 

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it. 

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath. 

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands. 

“These aren’t good tears,” he says. 

He’d know. They’re not. 

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out. 

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not you.” 

“But something does hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs. 

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.” 

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not. 

He looks sick. 

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage. 

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring. 

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly. 

“It’s so stupid.” 

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?” 

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.” 

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin. 

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.” 

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs. 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.” 

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.” 

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh. 

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble. 

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.” 

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.” 

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says. 

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying. 

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.” 

“Aaron.” 

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.” 

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.” 

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown. 

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.” 

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.” 

“Aaron!” you laugh. 

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.” 

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased. 

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.” 

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” 

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.” 

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.” 

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask. 

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.” 

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.” 

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze. 

”You said it.” 

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.” 

“I’m glad you asked me.” 

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now. 

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders. 

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress. 

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.” 

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.” 

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.” 

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear. 

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast. 

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast. 

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind. 

“Are you eating that one?” you ask. 

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?” 

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.” 

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?” 

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?” 

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.” 

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.” 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.” 

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says. 

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour. 

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.” 

“I thought Miss Jareau went?” 

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.” 

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks. 

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.  

“Hey,” Aaron says. 

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw. 

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe. 

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?” 

“I didn’t take any, sorry.” 

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says. 

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.” 

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text. 

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal 

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding? 

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that 

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless. 

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette 

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right? 

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online. 

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D 

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake. 

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thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

[seaside-cat]

Kids Room - Traditional Kids Kids' room - large traditional girl kids' room idea with blue walls

[mononijikayu]

wife — nanami kento.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking at you.” You whisper to him. “Let them, honey.” he said, his deep voice rich with certainty. “That’s all they can do.” He took your hand, calloused but gentle, and squeezed it just enough to send a rush of comfort through you. His thumb traced the side of your hand in a subtle, soothing gesture. The cool metal of his ring finger brushes against your skin with intent.  “They should know that I am exactly where I choose to be. I’m a married man, after all.”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: romance, marriage, nsfw, rated 18 and above, explicit content, kissing, making out, rough sex, p to v sex, toilet sex, orgasm, humor, profanity, pet names (baby, honey), possesiveness, jealousy, characters speaking in sexual innuendo, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, if your partner isn't nanami kento then don't have him ladies, gents and non-binary friends;

WORD COUNT: 6.6k words.

NOTE: nanami kento won the poll, so here we are!!! its relatively shorter than the current style i have, but i hope you still like it. and yes, i added a spoiler for shoko and geto's sister (since shoko won #2 in the poll, she also gets a fic!!!). they are still together cause god knows they need love and care after all they have been through. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this!!! i love you all and see you in the next one <3

masterlist

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THIS WAS A RARE OPPORTUNITY.  You don’t like going to these high social events at all, not even outside Jujutsu society. You were a homebody, you adored having time to yourself. But you can’t ignore Gojo Satoru’s invitation. Even if you want to.

He’s been so good to your Kento and he’s always making sure that none of the old farts are making his life miserable. So you felt inclined to go. You felt inclined to play a little bit with this world. 

The grand hall of Gojo manor was resplendent, a wash of gold and white with shimmering drapes that caught the light of the crystal chandeliers overhead. Gojo Satoru was not thrilled to host the gathering. But since it was his duty as the Gojo clan head and he had to play nice with all these people — he gave in and threw the party.

Of course, he refused to make it exclusively a sorcerer only gathering. He wanted to ensure that it was open to everyone, even yourself. That in itself breaks tradition. More often than not, it was only sorcerers, especially those in the higher echelons of Jujutsu society, who were allowed to come and enjoy such liberties. 

But of course, Gojo Satoru was not such a man of tradition. He hated it, as much as your Kento. So, of course, to enjoy you and Kento’s company and to spite all these snobs, he made sure to invite you and everyone else.

You find that you’re at least enjoying the building’s architecture. You were a fan of architecture, in all forms and culture. You and your husband Kento shared that passion, more so when you both were in Denmark or when you both were in the countryside. 

Still, Gojo manor was not too bad. You marvel at the intricate carvings on the walls depicting centuries of legendary battles and heroics of history gone by. Each one was a reminder that this was not just a gathering but a showcase of the Jujutsu world's most powerful and influential. 

Sorcerers mingled, their robes embroidered with clan symbols and sigils that spoke of generations of power and prestige. Conversations buzzed with a mix of guarded politeness and subtle rivalry.

The room alive with an undercurrent of competition disguised as small talk. The sound of polite laughter mixed with the clink of glasses filled with aged sake, its delicate aroma weaving through the air like a ghost.

You stood near the buffet table, the scent of delicacies. Gojo Satoru did well with getting everything together for this, especially the food, all high quality — only the best of the Gojo clan head’s tastes. You both think the same in that exquisite taste. 

That certainly is why you were excited to taste everything. From the perfectly grilled yakitori, dainty bowls of ikura don, to the plates piled with fresh sashimi and brilliantly wrapped hamachi. They were all wafting around you. They were all perfect for you.

“I regret wearing this dress.” You tell yourself in a small mumble. “It’s too tight and I forgot Gojo likes good food like me. I thought he would have left it to his goons to decide the food menu…”

You were dressed in an elegant but simple gown, a deep navy blue that skimmed your figure without the drama of glittering embellishments or the boldness of vibrant silks. Compared to the ostentatious displays around you, it felt almost understated, but it was you.

You could hardly care about the fashions of Jujutsu society. You liked your fashion. And your husband did too. That was all that mattered. You adjusted the silver cuff on your wrist, a small but meaningful gift from Nanami, its cool weight reassuring against your skin.

You glanced around, eyes catching a few familiar faces. There was Nitta Akari from administration and management, gesturing animatedly as she spoke with her colleagues, her face flushed with excitement. Mei Mei stood nearby, her icy beauty undiminished by the cool smirk she wore. 

She held court as always, eyes sharp as a hawk’s as she listened, spoke, and effortlessly commanded the attention of everyone within earshot. Hell, there was Usami too — but he was surrounded by those vultures from the conservative factions. 

But most of the women were like the wives of powerful clan leaders. They represented their husbands, who thought it too boring to join the gathering or rather were abandoned by their husbands to do other things. 

Yet they were powerful women in their own right and they wanted you to know it. They wanted for you to see it, so badly. Their outfits elaborate displays of status, from the gold-threaded kimonos to the jewels woven into their hair.  Their makeup was meticulous, brows arched and lips painted in deep shades of crimson or plum. 

Most of them were interesting to gawk at. But you were certain they thought the same about you. Especially those specific women. It was those more haughty women, clan women under the big three who glanced your way with subtle, evaluating eyes.

You could feel their scrutiny as tangibly as the satin ribbons brushing your wrists. A fan fluttered as a woman whispered behind it, her gaze cutting sideways toward you. She looked as haughty and dry as her entire face.

“Do you think she really fits in here?” one murmured, just loud enough for the question to reach your ears.

“I heard she’s not even a sorcerer.” came the response, this time with a touch of incredulity. “Yet they let her come near our children, to teach them about a world they don’t dwell in. Pathetic waste of time!” 

You pretended not to hear, reaching for a skewer of yakitori to busy your hands. But your pulse quickened, not with embarrassment, but with the awareness of the reason behind their thinly veiled curiosity. They must have been Zenin women, perhaps married to the higher ranked men in Zenin Naobito’s circle. You felt bad for them, yet you also hated them. 

But you knew that wasn’t the case for their hatred of you. Not exactly. It wasn’t the fact that you were an outsider, a non-sorcerer working as a window at Jujutsu High, who taught mundane subjects like history and literature to the students. 

Nor was it that the students often liked you better, seeking your lessons as a respite from their harsher training. It was the reason these women whispered behind jeweled fans and exchanged glances tinged with envy: you were the much beloved wife of Nanami Kento, the stalwart, handsome, and sought-after grade one sorcerer.

From across the room, you caught sight of him. He stood among a small circle of colleagues, the sharp lines of his tailored suit a contrast to the flowing robes around him. His expression was as stoic as ever, but there was a small shift when he saw you, a softening in his gaze that no one else would notice. 

To everyone else, he was the unapproachable, severe sorcerer who never let his guard down. But you knew the way his bright eyes would close just slightly when he was tired, the low chuckle he reserved for evenings spent at home, the way his voice lowered when he told you stories of his youth.

“Good evening.” came a familiar voice that broke through your wandering thoughts. You turned to find Ieiri Shoko standing beside you, her expression one of relaxed amusement. 

She was dressed in an elegant black ensemble that perfectly complemented her laid-back demeanor, a glass of sake dangling effortlessly from her fingers. Her sharp eyes glimmered with mischief as she surveyed the room.

“Evening.” You greeted back at her, your lips sharply echoing into a smile. “Why are you alone? Where’s your darling at?”

“Oh, surrounded by those pathetic vultures.” She pointed at the table where she was talking with the Kyoto women, smiling brightly. “Ugh, I hate those freaks. I can’t believe she’s around them. They’re not even worth an ounce of her giggles.”

“Geto–san has to make good with people somehow.” You pointed out to her, humming. “Connections are just connections. But you’re her lover. It’s been some years. Breathe, Sho.”

She rolls her eyes, before smiling. “Yeah, yeah.”

“How have you been?”

“Good, as always.” Shoko retorts back, humming at you. “I just wish I had cigarettes. But she said if I tried to smoke tonight, she wouldn’t let me hit.”

You laugh at her bluntness. “I do the same to Kento too, but with his alcohol. You both have to be kept on a leash.”

 “Oh the things we do for love.” She sighed heavily before looking at the ones glaring at you both. It wasn’t hard to notice those clusters of sorcerer wives eyeing you with thinly veiled intentions. “You’re doing well against their scrutiny, I see.”

“Barely. But I do find myself enjoying it.” you admitted, a small laugh escaping despite the tension. Shoko’s company was always welcome; her nonchalance had a way of making everything seem less dire.

Shoko took a slow sip from her glass, savoring it like she savored every moment. She shifted her gaze to one of the wives, a woman with a crimson kimono embroidered so elaborately it looked more like a tapestry than a garment. The woman was whispering behind her fan, eyes darting toward you and Shoko with a practiced side glance.

“Ah, her again. I thought she wouldn’t be here after she got exposed for her affair.” Shoko said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair. She leaned closer, voice low but biting. “Careful, she’s liable to sprain her neck with how much she’s been glaring. I heard last time she tried something that intense, she nearly fainted from holding her breath.”

You stifled a laugh, your shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth. Shoko’s dry humor was like a breath of fresh air, slicing through the tension with an effortless charm. The woman in the crimson kimono noticed your reaction and stiffened, her cheeks blooming with indignation.

“Let them look, let them whisper. Let them be jealous of you.” Shoko said, turning her eyes back to you. Her voice shifted to something more genuine, the mocking edge softening. “They’ll keep wondering because they can’t figure it out. You’re different, and they hate not understanding something. It’s their worst fear.”

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding, the knots in your chest loosening. Shoko’s words were more than just comfort; they were a reminder that your place here wasn’t defined by others’ perceptions but by your own truth and by the fact that Nanami stood beside you, unwavering.

“Thanks, Sho. I appreciate it a lot.” you said, voice steadying.

She gave a small shrug, the kind that said don’t make it a big deal. With another sip of sake, she nodded toward the buffet. “Now, let’s hope they restock the good tempura. If not, someone’s getting cursed tonight, and it won’t be me.”

She winked, then sauntered away, leaving you with a smile and the indelible impression that you weren’t as alone as you sometimes felt. Once she moved to the corner to see about the temperature, you could feel from the corner of your eye.

You saw the clan wives exchanging glances again. Their perfectly painted lips tightened just slightly as Nanami Kento, breaking from his group, made his way toward you, every step a quiet declaration.

“Is it true? She’s the one married to him?” another ignorant one whispered, leaning into a group of women whose gazes darted in your direction.

“Yes, the one with Nanami Kento, the number two of the first grade sorcerers.” another foolish one confirmed, unable to keep the hint of envy out of her voice. 

You turned slightly, pretending not to hear as you picked up a small plate of delicacies. You did not care for what they wanted to say about you. You were more focused on your desire to taste the dishes. The laughter and clinking glasses around you felt muted under the weight of the tension gathering nearby.

The whispers turned to sharp murmurs, punctuated by gasps and scandalized looks. But perhaps that bothered them even more, because they started making more comments.

“Who does she think she is, that no name wanna be?” The foolish one whispered, loud enough for people to hear her. But perhaps she does not realize she was not being discreet. 

The ignorant one scoffs in disbelief, shaking her head. “What a snob! How can Nanami-san be married to her?”

Shoko heard enough of it and turned around almost immediately from the dishes to the ladies. They jumped out of their seats. She rolls her eyes at them. It was as though she was just as annoyed as she was bored with them. 

“Honestly, get over yourselves. You all look like desperate idiots.” she said, a lazy smirk tugging at her lips as she leaned casually against a marble pillar. Everyone was now looking at them. Aren’t you at least going to have the gall to say it to our face, lady Kawami?”

The woman in the crimson kimono, lady Kawami, known for her sharp tongue and her greedy  ambition gasped, her painted lips parting in shock. Beside her, another woman with intricately styled hair and a pinched expression scowled deeply. 

“How dare you—”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Shoko’s laughter was light and mocking, yet the glint in her eyes held no softness. She tilted her head, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at Lady Kawami’s reddening face. “You think Nanami Kento would like an ugly face and a bad attitude like yours? Ha! You wish!”

The crowd that had gathered to eavesdrop was stunned into silence, eyes flicking between the women like spectators at a duel. The foolish one’s face turned a deep shade of red, while the ignorant one sputtered, looking moments away from summoning her husband and causing an uproar. 

“You cannot talk to us like that!” she shrieked, voice pitched high with indignation. “My husband will hear of this!”

“Now, now, lady Kawami, you shouldn’t treat my guests like that.” The familiar, light-hearted voice of Gojo Satoru interrupted the escalating tension. The two women felt their eyes widen. They quickly bow before him. “It’s so disrespectful, don’t you think?”

Heads turned as he approached, dressed in an exquisite black and silver kimono decorated with the Gojo clan crest. Even in traditional wear, he managed to exude a casual, almost irreverent charm. His dark, round glasses perched on his nose added to the effect as he lowered them just slightly, revealing eyes that shimmered with barely concealed amusement.

“Ah, Gojo-sama.” Lady Kawami said, trying to mask her fluster with a demure nod, but the tension in her posture betrayed her. “I didn’t mean any disrespect towards her, but surely you can understand that—”

“Oh, I understand completely, lady Kawami.” Gojo interrupted, a playful grin spreading across his face. He pushed his glasses back up, letting them catch the light so that the rest of the room was reflected in them. “I understand that you’re boring my dear friend Shoko, and frankly, I can’t have that. Her girlfriend wouldn't be so happy, either. And of course, I love my friend’s happiness.”

The subtle ripple of suppressed laughter ran through the more observant bystanders. Lady Kawami’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes narrowing dangerously. It was rare for someone to speak to her like that and get away with it, but this was Gojo Satoru. A man whose reputation as the most powerful sorcerer in the room and quite possibly the world would mean his words carried weight that no amount of social maneuvering could deflect.

Shoko’s smirk widened as she raised her glass in mock toast to Gojo, her eyes gleaming. “Well, look who decided to save the day. Dashing, really, Gojo.”

He winked at her. “Anything to make sure tonight stays interesting.”

The ignorant one, still seething but now cautious, looked between Gojo and Shoko before settling on silence. The power dynamics had shifted too sharply, and she knew better than to push further. No one can go against Gojo Satoru and not face repercussions. No one. And it would have ended up badly for their husbands and their families if they did. 

You exhaled, tension releasing from your shoulders as the spectacle unraveled. A small, knowing smile touched your lips as Kento's eyes found yours from across the room, his expression softening just a fraction, and you knew that you weren’t alone in facing these moments. You were surrounded by friends who would always have your back, in their own unique, if slightly chaotic, ways.

The room’s atmosphere gradually loosened, tension shifting back to its usual simmering undercurrent. Gojo’s playful banter had disarmed the scene, leaving only the embarrassed scowls of lady Kawami and her cohort. Shoko took another sip of her sake, the glint of satisfaction in her eyes clear as she watched the women bristle and disperse.

“Good job not throwing that plate, masterful control.” Shoko said to you, her voice carrying a hint of approval. She nodded at the untouched delicacies in your hand. “Would’ve been a waste of good food.”

You chuckled softly, appreciating her humor. “Shouldn’t you be saying that to yourself, Sho?”

“Well, I mean, that’s true.” 

Gojo laughs. “Shoko would have done worse than that and we both know it.”

“Hm, but I would have you carry my food to my table.”

“Oh? Then people would be surprised, how anyone can force the Gojo clan leader to do anything on a whim.”

Before you could respond, a presence behind you made the small hairs on your neck stand up in recognition. You turned, and there he was—Nanami Kento, striding toward you with the kind of quiet confidence that set him apart from the rest.

He looked ever so handsome, your husband. But when you get him even more up close? It’s a different story. He looked even more like a god when he stood before you this close.  

He took in the scene, eyes flicking over the lingering crowd, Gojo’s smirk, and Shoko’s knowing look. Then his attention settled on you, warm and steady. “I see I missed the entertainment.” he said, his voice deep and even, but with a trace of curiosity.

Gojo lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “Ah, Nanami, you missed Shoko here defending your lovely lady’s honor with an admirable lack of diplomacy.”

Kento’s brows lifted slightly, his gaze darting to Shoko, who shrugged, unbothered. “They deserved it.” she said, as if that were the most obvious fact in the world.

With a quiet exhale, Kento nodded, accepting the unspoken truth that you were protected by bonds deeper than mere duty. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. The small gesture spoke volumes, his touch grounding and reassuring. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes searching yours for any trace of discomfort.

You smiled up at him, your earlier tension melting away entirely under his gaze. “I am now.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, subdued as always but unmistakably there. The few remaining onlookers, who had hoped to catch a new drama unfolding, exchanged glances before deciding they had better places to be.

Gojo clapped his hands, shattering the delicate silence that had settled. “Well, now that we’ve cleared the air, what do you say we toast to another evening of society’s finest theatrics?” His grin was as wide as ever, his glasses reflecting the chandelier’s light like a pair of miniature suns.

Nanami shook his head, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he glanced at you, then back at Gojo. “You never change, Gojo.” he muttered, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

“And wouldn’t it be boring if I did?” Gojo countered, raising a brow.

Shoko raised her glass, smirking at Gojo before tipping it toward you and Nanami. “Unwavering loyalty and keeping things interesting!” she said.

You lifted your plate with a grin, and Kento, never one for dramatics, simply inclined his head. But the unspoken promise in his gaze, the silent support he offered, said more than any toast or witty comment ever could. In a hall filled with power, it was that quiet moment, surrounded by friends and the one who held your heart, that resonated most.

Soon enough, Shoko returned to her girlfriend with her plate stacked with food on one hand and the other holding a glass of wine. Her girlfriend, Geto Suguru’s younger sister, was waiting for her at one of the tables by the back.

Of course, Gojo Satoru returned to moving about and greeting everyone, but he seemed to have been halted by lord Kawami, probably trying to get things straight and settled. No one likes losing his favor after all. It was better that everything was smoothed out with him.

The incident however did not stop the women from continuing to look at your husband wantingly. One of the clan leader’s wives, her jeweled fan hiding half her face, whispered something to the woman beside her. They glanced over, eyes narrowing as if they could decipher what spell had ensnared someone like Nanami Kento.

“They’re watching again.” you murmured, feeling a twinge of jealousy and self-consciousness.

You immediately caught the glance of a woman adorned with a striking emerald necklace that glittered every time she turned. Her expression was polished and unreadable, but the pointed way she looked at you sent an old, familiar discomfort crawling up your spine.

Kento’s presence next to you was a calm in the storm, an anchor against the waves of whispers and stares. He tilted his head slightly, just enough that the room’s golden glow cast warm highlights across his sharp features. His eyes, serious and unwavering, met yours.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking at you.” You whisper to him.

“Let them, honey.” he said, his deep voice rich with certainty. “That’s all they can do.”

He took your hand, calloused but gentle, and squeezed it just enough to send a rush of comfort through you. His thumb traced the side of your hand in a subtle, soothing gesture. The cool metal of his ring finger brushes against your skin with intent. 

“They should know that I am exactly where I choose to be. I’m a married man, after all.”

A silence swept over the nearby crowd, as if Nanami Kento’s words, though spoken softly, carried through the hall like a sudden change in the wind. The clan leaders’ wives, women who could command a room with a flick of their eyes or a whisper laced with intent, shifted uncomfortably. For all their power, their meticulously curated reputations, and the alliances they upheld like prized heirlooms, they had never been the center of such unwavering devotion.

Akari from administration glanced over and offered a subtle nod of approval, a small smile playing on her lips as she resumed her conversation. Mei Mei, sharp-eyed and ever perceptive, caught the moment as well. She raised her glass, her smirk deepening as though to say, well played.

The subtle tension that once swirled around the room, woven through glances and whispers, began to dissipate. Some turned their attention back to their conversations, laughter resuming, but not without the occasional glance in your direction, this time tinged more with begrudging respect than judgment.

“Kento, baby.” you said softly, a small smile breaking through as your heart settled back into its natural rhythm. The weight of self-consciousness fell away, replaced by a warm sense of belonging that his presence always seemed to ignite.

“Hmm?” he replied, his gaze still watching you with an intensity that was rare for him, except when you were alone.

“Thank you, baby.” you whispered, squeezing his hand back.

His eyes softened, the smallest, barely-there curve of his lips showing just the hint of a smile meant only for you. “There’s nothing to thank me for, honey.” he replied, tilting his head as if to read your thoughts. “It’s simply the truth.”

══════════════════

IT HAPPENED AS QUICKLY AS ONE COULD BLINK. But you suppose you can’t help it. Your desire for pleasure was fast when it came to Nanami Kento. Much more so when you’re jealous. BUt you knew your husband liked that. More than he likes to admit to you.

You felt a delicious rush of power as you yanked him closer by his tie, leading him out of the crowded hall. Away from the watchful eyes and mingling strangers, it was just the two of you in the quiet, dim hallway, with only your quickened breaths filling the silence.

The door closed behind you, and before you could say another word, his hands were on you, strong and possessive, pressing you back against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. His fingers traced over your hips and along your waist, leaving a tingling heat in their wake.

It was as if he was memorizing every inch of you all over again. You looked up at him, catching his gaze; his eyes were heavy with desire, and the way he looked at you made your knees feel weak. He was entirely yours in that moment, and you were entirely his.

Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt, his heartbeat echoing your own. His mouth was on yours again, the kiss deep and ravenous, filling the space with the sounds of quickened breath and desperate touches. The world beyond the bathroom faded, leaving only the two of you, tangled in each other.

When he pulled back to look at you, you could barely catch your breath. His hand found the curve of your neck, fingers tracing gently along your jawline, and your own hands gripped his shoulders, grounding you as your pulse raced.

“You’re so good….” you managed to whisper breathlessly, your voice trembling as you tried to form words. "Kento….." you murmured, the words spilling out between gasps, each syllable almost a sigh as you clung to him. 

The intensity of his gaze made you shiver, your own desire reflected in his eyes. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, and you felt a thrill ripple through you as he whispered your name. His breath felt hot, so tenderly warm against your skin. And even more so when he said your name in that breathy way. That made you feel even more excitement.

For a moment, you both paused, catching your breath as the heat of the moment washed over you. His fingers brushed along your cheek, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, as though savoring this quiet, charged moment before pulling you back in with the same raw, electric passion.

And in that hidden space, the two of you lost yourselves, caught in the perfect, unbreakable intimacy that felt like a world away from the bustling party. If you both had your way, both of you would have been locked away from the world. All you needed was each other.

His hands explored with a possessive tenderness, each touch leaving trails of fire across your skin. You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he pressed his lips along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You shivered, feeling him smile against your skin, clearly pleased at the effect he was having on you.

You pulled him even closer, fingers moving from his shirt to his tie, loosening it slightly, just enough to slide it off his neck. Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his eyes fixed on you with a focused intensity that made you feel as though you were the only person in the world.

"Can’t believe you dragged me out here, honey." he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his words sending a thrill through you. "But I’d follow you anywhere. I’ll make love to you anywhere you want me to."

His words made your heart race, and you felt the butterflies from earlier stirring again as he leaned in, his mouth meeting yours with a new urgency. It was as if all the tension from the night poured into that kiss, building into something raw and unstoppable.

As he pulled you closer, his fingers gently brushed your hair back from your face, and you caught his gaze, breathless. You couldn’t help the small, breathless laugh that escaped as you looked at him, both of you a little dizzy, a little wild.

“This is dangerous, you know, baby.” you whispered, a playful smirk dancing on your lips as you tightened your hold on him. But he only raised an eyebrow, his own grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Good.” he replied, his voice a low murmur. "Wouldn’t have it any other way."

Soon enough, you were under his thumb. His movements grew rougher, each thrust deep and unrelenting, sending a surge of sensation through you that bordered on overwhelming. Every press of his body against yours was a heady mixture of strength and passion. 

And it was all you could do to cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as the intensity built. His pace quickened, and you felt your back arch instinctively, unable to control the way your body responded to him.

Your breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, each one catching in your throat as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge, his touch both possessive and tender. Your senses blurred; the world narrowed down to the feel of him, the heat between you, the way he whispered your name against your skin in a voice that was both rough and reverent.

Every movement, every thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, each one pushing you further until you were lost in the sheer intensity of it all. You gripped him tightly, almost desperately, as though grounding yourself against the delicious onslaught. 

His name left your lips in broken gasps, and as you met his gaze, the shared passion and vulnerability in his eyes were enough to undo you completely. Everything about your husband makes you feel alive. Especially at this moment. He was good at making you cry for life.

In that moment, you felt yourself surrender, giving in fully to the dizzying rush, to him, and to the warmth and bliss that consumed you both. You shifted slightly beneath him, the heat of your body still trapped in the shared intimacy of the moment. The words escaped you before you could stop them, your jealousy bubbling to the surface. 

"I saw the way they were looking at you tonight, baby." you whispered, your voice a blend of frustration and desire, your fingers gripping his shoulders tightly. "All those women... They were ogling you, making eyes at you, and I couldn’t—"

His breath hitched at the raw honesty in your voice. His eyes darkened, a flicker of something primal flashing across his face. Without breaking his rhythm, he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he growled, "Don’t you dare think about them. You're the only one I want. I only want my wife. My little precious wife."

His words were a balm, but the way his body moved, the deep, relentless thrusts, were what truly silenced your insecurities. The force of each movement was almost punishing, his hips driving into you harder, making your head spin with pleasure. His hands gripped your hips, steadying you as he picked up speed, his breath ragged against your skin.

"You think I want them?" he asked, his voice a dark, velvety rasp. "No. It's you, only you. Always been you." His words came out in desperate gasps, the intensity of his thrusts growing, pushing you both to the edge. "You’re mine. No one else matters."

You moaned, feeling a thrill surge through your chest, his raw claim igniting something deeper within you. His pace never faltered, and as he rams into you harder.

Each movement seems to strip away the last remnants of your doubts. Your body responded, the tension in you winding tighter, tighter, until you were sure you'd break. You could barely speak, your voice hitching as you met his powerful thrusts with a soft whimper, your body rocking with the force of him.

"I’m jealous, baby. I always am." you admitted, your hands tracing down his chest, grasping at him desperately, the words slipping between gasps. "But you're mine too. Only mine."

"Always have been, honey. Only yours." he replied, his hands pressing you harder into the cold tile as he moved faster, pushing you further toward the edge with each heated thrust. 

His voice was a low growl, his rhythm unrelenting, and you could feel him losing himself as much as you were, both of you consumed by the need, the overwhelming desire to claim and be claimed.

The moment his lips crashed into yours, everything else seemed to melt away. The overwhelming intensity of the kiss mirrored the urgency of his movements, his body pressing deeper into yours, each thrust sending waves of heat through you. The kiss was possessive, his tongue claiming yours with the same hunger that burned between you both.

As he pushed deeper, his rhythm becoming relentless, you felt a broken cry escape from you, a mixture of pleasure and raw emotion that you couldn’t hold back. His eyes, dark with desire, caught yours, and for a moment, you saw something deeper than just lust—something primal and protective, something that made your heart race in a way you couldn’t explain.

"You’re so fucking beautiful, honey." he whispered against your lips, his voice rough with the same need he’d been building in both of you. “My wife is so fucking beautiful.” 

His hands moved to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer as he thrust deeper, pushing you to the brink, your cries turning into soft whimpers as your body was caught in the storm of sensation. It felt so good, it always has been.

The deeper he is, the deeper the pleasure fills you. The more you cry out and moan. The more he tries to defy the possibilities, thrusting deeper to fill you more and more.

The tears that pricked the corners of your eyes weren't from pain—no, it was something more complex, something that left you breathless. It was the weight of the connection, the force of his touch, and the emotional release that you hadn’t expected.

All combined into something that made your chest tighten with overwhelming feeling. You cried because he was inside you in every way, not just physically but emotionally, each thrust deeper, each kiss harder.

Kento pulled away slightly, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, his breath hot against your face. His eyes softened for a moment, but the hunger in them never dulled. 

"You’re mine, only mine, wife." he breathed, his voice low but full of meaning, before kissing you again, harder this time, as though proving to you what he’d just spoken.

The kiss deepened as he pulled you even closer, his body pressing against yours with a fervor that made your entire being hum with raw need. You could feel every inch of him, every movement of his muscles, and it was as if the world had disappeared entirely, leaving just the two of you tangled in this electric, consuming moment.

His thrusts became more forceful, each one driving deeper, pushing you to the edge of something wild and uncontrollable. Your nails dug into his back, clinging to him for support as his mouth moved from yours, trailing down your neck, biting and sucking as he marked you, claiming you completely.

"Don't hold back, honey." he murmured against your skin, his breath ragged. "Let go for me. I need you to feel this... all of it."

You couldn't hold back, not anymore. Not even if anyone was to hear outside. You didn’t feel bad about being this loud because it was your pleasure. About the pleasure he was giving you. He was making you feel good and you wanted him to know it. 

“Good baby, my good little wife. Take me. Take me whole.”

His words hit something deep inside, and you cried out, your voice a broken whisper as your body surrendered fully to him, to the pleasure, to the overwhelming emotions that swirled inside you. His name escaped your lips in a desperate, breathless moan, and the sound seemed to spur him on, his pace quickening as he met you with relentless urgency.

Each thrust pushed you further into a frenzy of sensation, and the pleasure that had once been distant now consumed you completely. The tears that had been building in your eyes spilled over, not from pain, but from the intensity, from the way his body moved with yours in perfect rhythm, from the way he made you feel so utterly seen, so completely his.

Kento’s hand moved to your face, his thumb gently swiping at the tears on your cheek, a tender touch amidst the feverish passion. His eyes softened for just a moment, but then they hardened with desire as he kissed you again, his tongue tasting your lips, your moans swallowed by the deep kiss.

"You're everything to me, honey." he growled, his voice barely audible between breaths. "And I’ll make sure you never forget that."

His words, the way his body pressed into yours, the way his hands held you so firmly. It all built up to something so deep, so visceral that you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began. Everything inside you snapped, the waves of pleasure crashing over you in a rush, leaving you breathless and shaking in his arms. 

Your cries were mingled with his own as he lost himself in the moment, the sound of skin against skin filling the small space as you both gave in to the release, the powerful culmination of everything that had been building between you.

As the waves of pleasure slowly subsided, leaving both of you breathless and spent, the quiet hum of the room returned, only now it felt like a distant memory compared to the electric tension between you. You both lingered in the aftermath, bodies still pressed together, hearts racing in sync. 

Your breath was ragged, your fingers tracing the sweat-slick skin of his back, grounding yourself in the sensation of him still so close. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustling of your clothes and the echo of your breaths.

But just as you began to collect yourself, a sound broke the stillness—a soft thud of footsteps, followed by the faint murmur of voices. Your heart skipped a beat as the realization hit. Your boldness had gotten inflated by sanity. 

You both hadn’t noticed the soft creak of the door, hadn’t heard the hushed conversations approaching. And then, before either of you could react, the door was pushed open, revealing the clan wives, standing in the doorway, eyes wide with shock, mouths agape.

Kento’s gaze flickered to the doorway, but when he saw the surprised looks on their faces, he didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. He stayed right where he was, his hands still possessively on you, his lips curled into a confident, unbothered smirk. He looks at you, mesmerized by you. By his want for you. Nothing else mattered. Decency, rules, proportionality — they’re done when he makes love to you.

Yet when you looked at him. Nothing else mattered. You too also didn’t care now. A sense of defiance rose within you, the fire from before still burning strong. Without a second thought, you pulled Kento closer, your hands grasping his face as you tilted your head up to meet his lips. The kiss was fierce and unapologetic, claiming him fully in front of everyone who dared to look.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, your voice low but steady, a possessive edge coloring your words. "You're only mine, hm? Forever, baby." you whispered, your fingers gently tracing his jawline as you met his smirk.

His gaze softened for a moment, his lips curling into a grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Always, honey." he replied, his voice a low rumble that held all the certainty in the world. “Forever.”

The clan wives stood frozen once again, caught between disbelief and curiosity, but neither of you acknowledged them again. You didn’t need to. Kento's words, and the way he held you, told them everything they needed to know.

You were his, and he was yours.

Forever.

[connorsui]

Sylus x reader - imagine

"A Month Without You"

You lay beside him, tracing the veins on his arm, feeling the gentle pulse beneath your finger tips as you hit his wrist.

"One ...two... three," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sylus shifted sliently, his red eyes watching you with mild curiosity. "What are you doing?" He asked, voice deep and smooth, like a dark melody.

"Shh! Stay still," you replied. Barely glancing up at him. "One...Two...three" you traced further down his arm, eyes focused on the way the veins looked under your touch.

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Sweetheart," He began, amusement dancing in his voice. "When you said you wanted to spend time with me, this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

You smirked but didn't stop tracing. "Oh, calling you to come to bed with me half naked with the blinds closed and the room dark and Netflix being on the tv is supposed to say something?"

Sylus laughed, the sound low and rich, causing a flutter in your chest. "Cmon, don't do this to me... you know I've been gone too long. Being without you has caused me to lose myself every night"

You bluffed. Rolling your eyes playfully. "I doubt it. I bet you liked being without me for awhile---some alone time to yourself, hmm?"

He sighted dramatically, catching your hand and holding it still. "Every night ..when I was stuck inside that colorless room filled with nothing but luxury, chandeliers and a colder bed …I swore to myself ..is this what hell feels like?"

You let out a soft laugh, leaning in closer to your head against his chest. "Yeah, well..." You murmured, your voice softening. "I'm glad you're back, I missed you after all"

He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you against him until you were pressed firmly against his chest. "Being without you for a month is something I do not want to do again" l. His voice was quiet now, a rare softness in his tone as he pulled you fully to him. His hands resting on your back. "But I'll admit," he continued. "Those videos you sent me late at night? They were the highlight of my day"

Your face flushed at the countless memories; you lifted your head to look at him in disbelief. "Don't tell me you saved those!?"

His smirk widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Don't worry darling ..I didn't" he teased, his fingers brushing along your back in lazy circles. "But I couldn't help myself ...I watched them over and over again. Just to imagine you losing yourself to my fingers instead"

"Sylus!" You gasped. Your face heating up even more. Before you could protest, he pulled you on top of him, your legs straddling his waist. His grin only deepened as he gazed upon you, his hands resting firmly on your hips.

"Now," he said. Voice dripping to a low, dark whisper. "I want to recreate every last video you sent me." He reached up, his fingers brushing lightly against the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "So, first thing first, can you turn around for me?"

[rkvriki]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ things that make their heart flutter

HI I KNOW I'M BARELY ACTIVE ON THE TIMELINE IM SO SORRY LMAO. something really intersting is coming very soon so keep an eye out hehe!!! make sure to leave feedback and reblog! my requests are closed and my talk box is always open so lets talk!

WARNINGS ! mentions of hoon feeling down; my inspiration to write this was very low so the las ones ended up being longer than the first three im so sorry :'); mentions of won being stressed; ni-ki not being proud of himself :(

word count: 1.5k

୨୧ LEE HEESEUNG !

– kissing him when he’s still half-asleep

the sun rays started shining through the curtains, hitting your eyes. you slowly opened them trying to adjust to the strong (late) morning light. it had been a long week and you needed to sleep as much as you could, giving your body the rest it needed. you stretched your body before turning to the side, seeing your boyfriend still asleep with his arms stretched by his head. you smiled softly at the sight before you, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. when you pulled back you watched as his eyes fluttered, still in between sleep and reality. heeseung opened his eyes, trying to look at you, but sleep was stronger than him and his eyes closed back again. you let out a quiet laugh and leaned down to kiss his pouty lips this time. the corners of his lips twitched upwards and his cheeks were getting warmer, making you chuckle at him before kissing his cheek and getting up to start your day.

୨୧ PARK JONGSEONG !

– looking at him from across the table

you and jay had been invited to a dinner with all of your friends. it was in a very fancy restaurant. high ceilings and big chandeliers. you were sat with your girlfriends while he sat with his friends, further from you. you hadn’t seen them in what felt like forever, work had been keeping all of you busy now that the year was ending. you were all engaged in a conversation, keeping up with everything going on with each other and spilling the latest gossip at work. you were so immersed in the conversation you kind of forgot jay was there too and this wasn’t just a casual dinner with your friends so you looked behind you and saw jay with his sleeves rolled up, laughing with his own friends. it was in moments like this you wondered how you had scored a man like this. too lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice jay looking back at you. when his eyes made contact with yours, you playfully winked at him, making him look away while blushing, making you laugh at his behaviour as you tuned back into the conversation.

୨୧ SIM JAEYUN !

– brushing his hair away

it was one of those peaceful days where both you and jake had a day off from work. jake had slept over at your house and you two spent the whole day basically doing nothing but enjoying each other company, which is something rare since lately he’s had a busy schedule because comeback is just around the corner. you had a whole movie marathon planned for the day and you were already on your fourth movie. the clock had just hit 7pm and you were starting to feel sleepy. jake was currently lying with his head on your lap as you were sat with your legs spread on the couch. you looked down at him, seeing him focused on the movie, his cheeks flushed from sleepiness. you smiled softly at the sight, your hand making its own way down to his cheek, caressing the soft skin. he looked up at you, smiling softly as he tried to rub the sleep off his eyes. his hair was falling on his eyes so your hand moved upwards to brush his hair away from his eyes. he closed his eyes at the touch as he felt his cheeks warm up and his heart flutter at the simple yet affectionate action.

୨୧ PARK SUNGHOON !

— running your hands through his hair as he speaks

today had been a long day for sunghoon. everything felt like it was going wrong. from the way his day started with him forgetting to bring his umbrella and getting soaked on his walk from work, him continuously making mistakes during dance practice to him spilling his drink he had ordered along with some food for lunch. his day was not bound to go well and he had already accepted his fate. he was so frustrated with himself. hoe could he keep making stupid mistakes during rehearsal? even though everyone kept reassuring him it was fine to have off days he just couldn’t be easy on himself. he just needed nothing but spend time with you and feel your confronting presence. sunghoon was currently lying down in your bed as you sat on the edge of it by his head. you were letting him ramble about his day. since the moment he stepped inside your house you knew something was up with him and if you didn’t insist on him he would just bottle all those feelings up. he was ranting about all his unpleasant events of the day as you looked down at him with a soft gaze. as he spoke he felt your hand starting to caress his hair until it was running smoothly through its strands, making him stutter his words. you laughed at him as he covered his face, hiding his blushing cheeks.

୨୧ KIM SUNOO !

– the way you stare at him when he speaks

sunoo is a very talkative person and he isn’t ashamed of it. he loves talking about the things he loves and sharing them with you. every time he is telling you about something that happened to him he will not miss any details. you obviously didn’t mind, you loved listening to him talk and you would do it for hours (as if you didn’t already). every time you didn’t see each other for a long time, like when he went on tour he would tell you everything that happened while he was abroad. it was happening today. sunoo had just come back from tour and you both missed each other more than anything so you took a day off to spend together. you both walked through the centre of the city, walking by the river as you watched all the people gathered there. you went shopping and stopped by a plush store and sunoo literally begged you to let him buy you one just because it resembled you. now, you were both taking a break in a cafe, eating every kind of pastry while drinking hot drinks as sunoo told you funny stories that happened during their concerts. you watched as he spoke with such a happy face, showing just how much he loved what he did. your head was propped in your hand as you stared at him lovingly. he stopped talking, hiding his blushing cheeks, scolding you for looking at him in such a manner. you just smiled and leaned forward to leave a peck on his lips.

୨୧ YANG JUNGWON !

– holding his hand when he’s stressed

being a leader is probably the hardest position to be in a group, especially when you’re a young one. now, jungwon loves being a leader, he loves to know that the members rely on and trust him like no one, but when he is expected to give speeches wherever they go, it gets him really anxious and even stressed. he’s done it multiple times and he almost always used to it, but sometimes, like today, he needs to talk to a bigger crowd in a bigger event. he’s been restless for the whole day, reading his script over and over again, trying to memorize it. you heard it so many times you could probably do the speech yourself without looking at the paper. he was sitting next to you on a couch backstage. his leg was bouncing up and down and he was sighing way too many times. you were getting worried he would get it all wrong just because of stupid nerves. you grabbed his hand, making him still in his movements. he looked at you and you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, making him smile and nod at you appreciating the comfort you were trying to bring him.

୨୧ NISHIMURA RI-KI !

– communicating without words

ni-ki loved performing more than anything in this world. it was what he did for a living and he couldn’t be more grateful for that. everyone, even without an artistic eye, could tell he was damn good at what he did, but somehow, he was never proud of his work. he would always point out flaws here and there that nobody noticed. he was too hard on himself and it made you sad that he couldn't see how good he does when he’s on stage. today was an important performance for him, he was going to have a solo dance project and he had been practicing so hard for it there was no way he would make a mistake. ni-ki had invited you to watch the recording and you gladly accepted. you watched him as he danced with the two backup dancers with such good chemistry. when the recording wrapped up he had to walk straight to an interview. he was walking past you and from the looks of it he wasn’t too happy with the result of things. he turned to look at you, seeing you nod proudly at him as you silently clapped and gave him a thumbs up with a grim, making him smile as looked down to the floor, visibly flustered and warmed up cheeks.

[tadc-harlequin-au]

New Puppet Unlocked: Caine, The Puppetmaster!

Caine's character description:

For the longest time, Caine believed that he was the only Puppet left who hasn't gone insane, and has spent living in near complete and total isolation for it (if it weren't for Bubble, his robotic Butler Blimp), drowning himself in booze. That was, until Pomni suddenly arrived at his office out of nowhere and challenged him.

Her sudden appearance, her fierceness in battle and various other reasons, Caine sought to get Pomni to see the dire situation after a stalemate in their duel; That they're the last remnants of sane minds remaining in this forsaken lands and he needs her help for what must be done next, if they are to improve the world's conditions. Thankfully, the Harlequin was not actually cold-hearted, just hot-tempered.

Reinvigorated in his self-assigned purpose, The Puppetmaster now spends his time either indoctrinating reawakened Puppets and teaching them how to become "human" once more, tinkering/inventing new machines, having friendly debates or sparring with Pomni just to satisfy her urge to battle, and various other things.

Though, he still likes to drink.

Fun facts about Caine:

He is a massive drunkard.

He passes out in the most random places if he drinks too much. One of the most outrageous locations Pomni has found him in was at the chandelier on the main lounge, which even he can't remember how he got there.

Caine still acts boisterous and speaks mostly formally; though there are ways you can break his way of speech, the easiest way to do it is to surprise him.

He avoids using swears, says it's a gentleman's code. Though, some get past his mouth on a rare occasion.

He created Bubble out of loneliness, initially just wanting someone to talk to.

In a comedic parallel, he tends to limit Pomni's cravings for battle by holding her sword hostage as much as possible, of course to the Harlequin's frustration.

His second gold tooth on his bottom jaw was a result of his and Pomni's first meeting/duel. She ended up kicking him so hard in her rage, one teeth cracked in half and flew off.

He tends to look at everyone with a positive mindset and the want to see the best in them; although Jax seems to be a rare exception. Still, he lets the automaton be.

Most of his time is spent hanging around in his office. The only time you'll see him outside is if there's a task he needs to attend to, assembling Pomni back together in the cellar, another sparring match with the Harlequin, or when he talks to Z and/or Kingr, since they are both too big for the insides of the mansion.

Like almost every ADHD-person, he is prone to getting distracted easily.

He has a strict "no fighting in the premises" rule; instead, he tells them to literally take it outside (even if it means being on the neighboring lawn), as long as it's not on the INSIDE.

He keeps his shirt opened because he feels discomfort and suffocated when he buttons it up.

He doesn't like to talk about his past.

When asked what's his classification, he'll avoid and switch topics. His rare anger (but eerily-calm way of speech) comes out when you ask about it too much.

He does admit that his entire body was self-modified.

You can hear his arrival in a scene by the sounds of ball joints slightly cracking in place.

Aside from Pomni, he likes Kingr the most, finding the chess piece's presence calming. This has lead to jokes about a bromance happening between the two.

And just like Pomni as well, Caine fixes Kingr the most because the Helpful King tends to use himself as a shield for the Harlequin.

He's rarely seen without his cane.

He HEAVILY dislikes it when Pomni dies. When he is aware that Pomni is at the brink of death, he'll start panicking and telling her to go back and abandon the mission for now, through Bubble.

Quotes:

"Greetings! I am Caine, and I am here to help you. That's all you need to know."

"I think we can arrange that."

"This is not part of the plan!"

"No fighting! Take it outside."

"Perhaps we can reach to a sort of agreement..."

"Hmm... quite intriguing."

"Why, I must say, this is quite the predicament..."

"Will you be mindful of your own sake next time, pretty please?"

"... I don't-... think that's how-... you know what, do whatever you want."

"... Okay, you don't need to go that far."

"You know what this calls for? [...] A CELEBRATION! [...] BUBBLE, TO THE LIQUOR STORAGE"

"You know, I haven't really thought this through enough--"

"BUBBLE! Did you chew through my latest project again?!"

"Oy vey..."

"I am aware of the effect that alcohol has on me. And quite frankly, I don't care."

"Strange, where am I? Who am I? What are we, but mass-produced products catered to extending one's stay on a desolate, abandoned realm? Are we even human anymore, or are we machines that think we're human in order to save ourselves from the pain of a fake existence? Hm? Oh right, I haven't eaten my dinner."

"Must we really resort to this method?"

"Oh, I just fixed that!"

"Apologies, I blanked out for a second. What were we talking about?"

"Bubble here can help you out on your dilemma. Just don't listen to him for any advices. Personally, I think sometimes he can make you jump off a cliff."

"What do you mean "I need to stop drinking"? I'm perfectly fi- *passes out*"

"Am I aware that it is an unhealthy coping mechanism? Yes. Do I plan to stop? Not exactly, there aren't a lot of options left."

"That is outrageous! Me? With her? That's... It's... *sigh* I can't. She'd never."

"May I just say, for once, what the actual fuck."

[hisllashirts]

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You can get both designs now on mymainmanpat.com for $22 only thru the next week. Always a joy to collab with Pat. Always bring out the best of my work and the final product is just masterful.

Get it while you can!

[solxamber]

Take Two || Vil Schoenheit

You and Vil, once lovers, are forced to reunite through work, stirring up old heartbreak and undeniable tension. Slowly, you realize love never truly left, and some stories deserve a second chance.

i promise it's a happy ending

The night air feels sharp against your skin, the chill sinking into your bones as you stand face to face with Vil in the shadow of Pomefiore’s grand staircase. His golden hair catches the faint light, glimmering like spun silk, his expression frozen in a mask of disbelief. But his eyes—his eyes betray him, shining with an ache so raw that it almost makes you collapse under the weight of your decision.

"You’re leaving me," he says, his voice flat, brittle, like glass about to shatter. "After everything."

You try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. "You deserve someone who can keep up with you, Vil. Someone who doesn’t have to fight just to be noticed, someone who—"

"Stop," he snaps, the word cutting through the night like a knife. "You think this is about keeping up? About deserving?" His voice rises, trembling with a rare fury. "You’re not a burden to me. You never were."

Tears spill over before you can stop them, warm against the chill of the night. "But I’m holding you back. You’re going to be an award-winning actor, a global icon. You’re meant for so much more, Vil. And I—I can’t be the reason you look back someday and wonder what you missed out on."

Vil’s hands curl into fists at his sides, his perfectly manicured nails digging into his palms. "You sound like a coward," he says bitterly. "Someone who doesn’t understand what it means to love. I gave you my heart, and you’re throwing it away like it’s... disposable."

You step closer, your voice trembling. "Vil, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. That’s why I’m doing this. Because I know that if I stay, I’ll be the anchor that holds you back."

He stares at you, stunned into silence, before his face crumples. It’s a sight you never thought you’d see—Vil Schoenheit, so composed, so regal, letting tears spill unchecked. "I regret it," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I regret giving my heart to someone who doesn’t want it."

Your breath hitches. You reach out, wiping his tears away with trembling fingers. "I want it. I’ll always want it."

"Then why—"

"Because I love you enough to let you go," you say, your voice cracking. You lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, tasting the salt of both your tears. It’s desperate and bittersweet, a farewell that neither of you wants but both know is inevitable.

When you pull back, his eyes are filled with an agony that mirrors your own. "I’ll pray to the stars that they align for us in another life," you whisper, stepping away even as every fiber of your being screams to stay.

Vil doesn’t follow. He stands rooted in place, watching as you disappear into the night, his tears sparkling under the starlight like diamonds.

And as you walk away, your heart breaking with every step, you can’t help but wonder if love is truly worth it when it hurts this much.

The spotlight gleams against the polished floors of the gala, chandeliers casting constellations on every surface. You stand at the edge of the room, champagne flute in hand, wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Laughter ripples around you, yet your heart pounds louder than any of the polite chatter.

Across the room, he stands, bathed in a soft golden light as if the universe itself couldn’t bear to dim him. Vil Schoenheit, global phenomenon, beloved by millions. And you, just a rising singer whose every success still feels like a shadow of his own.

You force yourself to look away before your gaze lingers too long. It's been years since that night—the night you kissed him goodbye, the night you walked away so he could become everything you knew he was destined to be.

And he did. Oh, he did.

Every magazine cover, every award stage, every grand performance is proof of that. You’re happy for him. Truly. You send flowers every time he wins something new, handpicking each bouquet and handwriting every note. Congratulations, Vil. You deserve this and more. No reply ever comes, but you never stop.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is enough.

He spots you before you spot him. He always does.

You stand by the windows, moonlight catching on the delicate fabric of your clothes. Your laughter mingles faintly with the music, but Vil knows you well enough to hear the cracks in it. To anyone else, you’re poised, radiant—a star in your own right. But to him, you’re the person who kissed him goodbye and took his heart with you.

He straightens his posture, as if that will shield him from the wave of memories crashing over him.

The flowers you send have become a cruel routine. He receives them like clockwork—each arrangement more thoughtful than the last, each card bearing your familiar handwriting. He reads every word, his thumb brushing over the ink, before placing the cards in a drawer he’s too afraid to open.

And yet, he saves them all.

Seeing you now is both agony and relief. He knows his worth; the world adores him, reveres him. But when he sees you, every ounce of that worth feels hollow. He feels young again, vulnerable—a teenager fumbling with emotions too large for his heart to hold.

The inevitable happens: your eyes meet.

You catch Vil’s gaze across the room, and your heart stutters. You force yourself to smile, a small, polite thing, and raise your glass in acknowledgment. He nods back, his face unreadable, and you swear your knees might give out.

You’re supposed to be over this. You’re supposed to be happy.

But every time you see him, the years fall away. It’s as if you’re back at Pomefiore, back on that staircase, wiping away his tears and whispering that you loved him before breaking both your hearts.

You excuse yourself to the balcony, the cool night air biting at your skin. You lean on the railing, taking deep breaths.

"Running away again?"

His voice is smooth, poised, and far too close.

You whirl around, and there he is, the moonlight outlining him like the leading man in some grand romantic drama. He’s holding his own champagne flute, his free hand tucked neatly in his pocket. He looks flawless, as always, but his eyes betray him.

"I wasn’t running," you say, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

"Of course not," he replies, his tone as sharp as ever, but there’s something softer beneath it. He steps closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you. "And yet, here you are. Avoiding me again."

Your throat tightens. "I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me."

He laughs, a quiet, bitter sound. "Do you really think I have nothing to say to you after all this time?"

You blink, taken aback. "I—I didn’t know. You never—"

"Responded?" He raises an eyebrow, his expression a careful mask. "What was I supposed to say, darling? That every card, every flower, every fleeting mention of you feels like a dagger?"

The word darling slips out so naturally that you almost miss it. Almost.

"Vil, I—"

He cuts you off, his voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. "Do you have any idea what it’s like to be adored by millions and still feel empty because the one person I want won’t even look at me properly?"

You gape at him, words caught in your throat.

"You left me," he says, and his voice breaks just enough for you to hear it. "You left, and I—" He exhales sharply, composing himself. "I told myself I hated you for it. But the truth is, I never stopped—"

You take a step forward, closing the distance. "Stop."

His eyes widen slightly, his perfect mask slipping.

"I never stopped either," you admit, your voice trembling. "I thought I was doing the right thing. For you, for us. But all I did was break us both."

And then you unceremoniously run, like you always do.

The sound of your phone vibrating aggressively on your nightstand jolts you awake. It’s your manager, and he’s barking something about an emergency meeting, now.

Still half-asleep, you throw on the first pair of pants you can find, grab your bag, and sprint like you’re being chased by a swarm of angry bees. By the time you reach your company’s little meeting room, you’re wheezing like an old accordion.

You stumble in, gasping for air. “I’m—here—what’s the—emergency?”

And there he is.

Vil Schoenheit, sitting in your dingy little meeting room, radiating elegance and beauty like he’s some Greek god forced to endure mortal company. His perfect golden hair gleams under the flickering fluorescent lights, and his outfit probably costs more than your annual rent.

For a second, you just stand there, staring at him in disbelief. "What?" you manage to choke out.

“Ah, you’ve arrived!” your manager says, completely ignoring your obvious confusion. He’s fawning over Vil like the man just descended from heaven itself. “Aren’t we so fortunate to have Vil Schoenheit here with us today? What a privilege!”

Vil sits there with the most unimpressed expression you’ve ever seen, his gaze lazily drifting to yours. He raises an eyebrow, and the look on his face very clearly says: The universe hates me as much as it hates you.

“Why…” You gesture wildly at him like that explains anything. “Why is he here?”

Your manager claps his hands together as if this is all the most wonderful news in the world. “You’ve been given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to compose and perform the opening theme for Vil’s new drama!”

“…What?”

“And Vil has graciously come all this way to provide you with inspiration!”

Vil crosses his legs, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I didn’t exactly volunteer,” he says flatly. “I was informed this meeting was non-negotiable.”

“Graciously forced,” you mutter under your breath, earning a sharp glance from him.

Your manager continues, oblivious. “This is huge for us! For you! For the company! A chance to collaborate with Vil Schoenheit!” He’s practically vibrating with excitement.

You? You’re mentally screaming. The room’s ancient air conditioning groans louder than your brain cells, and the smell of stale coffee is threatening to choke you. This is where Vil Schoenheit is supposed to get his inspiration?

“Great,” you say weakly, flopping into a chair. “Love that for us.”

Your manager claps you on the back, way too hard. “I’ll leave you two to get started! Can’t wait to hear what you come up with!” He scurries out of the room like his life depends on it.

The door clicks shut. Silence.

You turn to Vil, who’s looking at you like he’s silently calculating how fast he can escape. “So,” you say, attempting to sound professional. “I guess we’re doing this.”

Vil sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It seems we have no choice.”

“You could’ve said no.”

“And risk tarnishing my reputation? Hardly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wow. Thanks for that vote of confidence in my music.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. I’ve heard your work. It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” You bristle. “Just fine?”

“I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,” he says smoothly, completely ignoring your indignation. “Or at least, I hope you will.”

This is going to be a long day.

The next hour is spent with Vil giving you vague, lofty descriptions of “atmosphere” and “emotion” while you scribble down ideas that may or may not be entirely out of spite.

“Think regal, but with an edge,” Vil says, leaning back in his chair like a king addressing his court. “Something that captures the drama’s tone—elegance, intrigue, power.”

“Right,” you say, scrawling Fancy Soap Commercial Vibes in your notebook.

“And it must resonate with the audience on an emotional level,” he adds, completely serious.

You nod, underlining Fancy Soap Commercial for good measure.

At one point, Vil gets up to demonstrate a movement he wants the music to evoke, his motions fluid and precise like the world’s most intimidating interpretive dancer. You’re not sure if you’re inspired or just terrified.

Finally, you throw your pen down. “I get it! Regal, edgy, emotional. Big feels. Got it.”

Vil gives you a skeptical look. “Are you certain? Because your notes don’t inspire much confidence.”

You glance down at your notebook, where you’ve doodled a tiny stick figure labeled Vil’s Vibes surrounded by stars. “…Yeah, totally got this.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “If this ends up sounding like a children’s lullaby, I’m holding you personally accountable.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Great. No pressure.”

And yet, as much as you want to throttle him for his impossible standards, there’s a part of you that doesn’t hate this. Because, well… it’s Vil. And whether you want to admit it or not, working with him is kind of incredible.

Even if he’s the most dramatic muse you’ve ever had.

The day starts with your manager shoving a revised directive into your hands: go watch Vil's shoot. Apparently, you needed more "inspiration" to compose a song fit for his upcoming drama.

Great. Because spending more time around Vil Schoenheit, global icon and your ex, is exactly what you needed to totally not lose your mind.

Still, you don’t show up empty-handed. On the way to the set, you grab an aggressively caffeinated iced espresso for yourself—because surviving the day calls for it—and, without much thought, you pick up a caramel macchiato with oat milk.

The barista hands it over, and you’re hit by a pang of nostalgia. This was Vil’s favorite back when you were teenagers, back when you’d watch the sunset with him after his rehearsals. You shake the thought away. It’s just coffee.

When you arrive, Vil’s seated on a folding chair, reading over his script like it’s sacred text. Even in the chaos of the bustling set, he looks poised, his hair perfect despite the heat of the lights.

You approach, clearing your throat. “Hey.”

He glances up. “You’re late.”

“I’m five minutes late.” You hold out the cup. “Peace offering?”

Vil takes the coffee without comment, but the moment he sips it, his movements falter. His eyes widen, ever so slightly, and you catch the flicker of emotion on his face before he masks it.

You don’t linger. “I’m going to talk to the producers.”

As you walk away, Vil stares at the cup, at the faint smiley face you’ve drawn on the lid. His chest tightens. You remembered.

He forces the thought down, folding it neatly into the drawer of unspoken feelings he’s cultivated since the day you left him. Setting the cup aside, he rises, perfectly composed. He has a scene to shoot, and Vil Schoenheit doesn’t falter.

Watching Vil perform is like watching magic. Every movement, every look, every line—he’s utterly captivating.

You sit near the monitors, jotting down notes as inspiration flows. There’s something about him—his intensity, his elegance—that fills your mind with melodies. You’re so engrossed that you barely notice the shoot wrapping up until Vil walks over, a towel slung casually around his neck.

“Are you leaving already?” he asks, his voice smooth and calm, like you hadn’t just been mentally composing an ode to his perfection.

“Uh, yeah. I’ll call an Uber.” You stand, shoving your notebook into your bag.

He frowns, clearly unimpressed. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take you home.”

“Vil, it’s fine—”

“I insist,” he says sharply, already walking towards his car.

You follow, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and dread.

The car ride is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the engine and the city lights flashing by. Vil’s driver keeps his gaze firmly on the road, giving the two of you privacy, but the atmosphere feels oddly intimate.

As you sit there, your mind drifts back to your first date. You were a nervous wreck back then, fumbling with your words, tripping over your feet. Vil, of course, had been effortlessly composed, amused by your flustered state but kind enough to guide you through it.

A small smile tugs at your lips at the memory.

“What’s so amusing?” Vil asks, his voice breaking the silence.

You glance at him, startled. He’s looking at you, his gaze sharp but curious.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

He doesn’t press, but his eyes linger on you longer than usual.

When the car pulls up to your apartment, you thank Vil and step out, but as you turn to leave, you feel his hand wrap around your wrist.

“Vil?” you ask, surprised.

He blinks, as if realizing what he’s done, and lets go immediately. “Nothing,” he says, straightening. “Just… be on time tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “I will.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might say something more. But he doesn’t. He nods curtly, turning back to the car.

Inside your apartment, you close the door behind you and slide down to the floor, the tears spilling out before you can stop them.

He’s as beautiful as the day you let him go, and it hurts.

You’re so happy for him, so proud of everything he’s achieved. But God, you miss him.

Meanwhile, Vil sits in the back of the car, staring out the window as the city blurs past. His fingers brush against the empty coffee cup in his bag, the one with the faint smiley face you drew.

His heart aches, but he doesn’t let it show. Not even to himself.

The drama is an undeniable success, catapulting Vil’s already dazzling career into further stratospheric heights. But unexpectedly, the opening theme—your song—becomes the anthem of the year, a chart-topping sensation that has every talk show, magazine, and fan forum buzzing about your collaboration.

You, however, aren’t basking in the glow of success as expected. If anything, you’re moping.

Deuce notices first. “You okay? You look… weird.”

“I don’t look weird.”

“You do,” Grim adds, gnawing on his tuna sandwich. “You look like you ate bad tuna but don’t want to admit it.”

“Thank you for the visual,” you deadpan.

You sigh. Everyone else is ecstatic. Your phone is a whirlwind of congratulatory messages, your manager has been pacing like an over-caffeinated rodent, and your inbox is overflowing with offers. Yet all you can think about is the fact that the drama is over—and so are your obligations to Vil.

No more early mornings brainstorming lyrics with him. No more quiet moments sipping coffee during breaks. No more stolen glances when you thought he wasn’t looking (he always was).

It’s ridiculous, really. You’re thriving. Your career is skyrocketing. You should be ecstatic.

Instead, you feel like you’re bracing for an emotional wrecking ball.

Vil, on the other hand, is furious. Not at the drama’s success, of course—he’s a consummate professional, and his performance has been widely praised. No, Vil is furious because he can’t escape you.

He tried. Oh, how he tried. He kept himself busy with interviews, photoshoots, and premieres, meticulously avoiding the thought of you. But then the making-of video was released.

There you were, sitting beside him, coffee cup in hand, throwing out ideas with that little spark in your eyes. The fans lapped it up, the media ran with it, and now every outlet wanted the two of you together for joint interviews.

Vil could not imagine a worse fate.

The first interview is scheduled for 10 a.m., and you arrive early, clutching your notes like a lifeline.

Vil is already there, of course. He sits with perfect posture, his gaze steely as he scrolls through his phone. When he notices you, his lips press into a thin line.

“Good morning,” you venture hesitantly.

“Is it?” he replies coolly, without looking up.

Ouch.

The producer, blissfully unaware of the tension, claps his hands together as he enters the room. “Ah, our power duo! Ready to make magic?”

You exchange a strained glance with Vil. He raises a single brow, clearly unimpressed.

The interview begins, and for the most part, it’s harmless—questions about the creative process, the drama’s success, and future projects.

Then the interviewer smirks, leaning forward. “You two have such wonderful chemistry. Were you always this in sync, or did it take time to build that dynamic?”

Vil’s jaw tightens. You blink, feeling the weight of his stare.

“Well,” you start, “we worked really hard to make the song fit the tone of the drama. It’s all about teamwork.”

“Hmm, teamwork,” Vil echoes, his tone dangerously smooth. “Yes, that’s one way to put it.”

The interviewer beams, oblivious to the storm brewing. “Fans are dying to know—any plans for another collaboration?”

“Who knows?” Vil says, his smile razor-sharp. “Perhaps fate will decide.”

By the time the interview ends, you’re emotionally drained. Vil, of course, looks as pristine as ever.

“Thanks for being civil,” you mutter as you both head to the parking lot.

“Civil?” Vil’s laugh is devoid of humor. “Darling, if that’s your standard for civility, I fear you’ve been spending too much time with amateurs.”

You glare at him, heat rising in your cheeks. “I didn’t ask for this either, you know. You think it’s easy for me to—”

You stop yourself, biting your tongue. You’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he still affects you.

Vil arches a brow, waiting. When you say nothing, he smirks. “Thought so.”

Later that night, as you scroll through social media, you stumble upon a clip from the interview. It’s nothing scandalous—just a moment where you and Vil exchange a glance and laugh at a question. But the comments are merciless.

> “These two have HISTORY, I can feel it through the screen!” >“Vil looked like he wanted to stab and kiss them at the same time, and honestly, relatable.” >“Petition for them to star in a romantic drama together??”

You groan, throwing your phone onto the couch.

Somewhere across town, Vil is scrolling through the same comments, his expression unreadable. He closes the app with a sigh, but not before saving the clip to his private gallery.

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s masochism. Maybe it’s hope. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because a part of him isn’t ready to let you go.

The day of the photoshoot arrives, and you’re running on a dangerous combination of nerves, caffeine, and denial. Standing next to Vil for hours under flashing cameras, forced to feign effortless chemistry, feels like a ticking time bomb.

Vil, of course, looks unbothered—poised and perfect as ever, his every movement calculated for maximum elegance. Meanwhile, you’re sweating like a guilty criminal.

“Relax,” Vil murmurs as he adjusts his jacket between shots. “Your unease is practically a stench.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” you grumble.

The shoot goes on without a hitch, until—of course—it doesn’t.

It happens in the middle of a particularly dramatic pose. Vil, perched precariously on a raised platform in heels, steps down just as an intern accidentally knocks over a loose prop. It lands with a sharp crack, and Vil, who’s clearly caught off guard, stumbles and falls.

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

“Are you okay?” someone yelps, rushing toward him.

“Don’t touch me,” Vil snaps, voice sharp as glass. He sits up with a wince, cradling his ankle.

You’ve been keeping your distance the entire shoot, trying to maintain your professional boundary. But the second you see Vil hurt, that self-imposed wall shatters.

“Vil!” you shout, practically tripping over cables as you rush to his side.

He looks up, his expression guarded. For a moment, you hesitate, half-expecting him to snap at you too. But instead, he simply nods, a subtle permission that shocks the entire production team into silence.

With a surprising amount of strength born from sheer adrenaline, you lift Vil into your arms, bridal style.

Someone from production stammers, “We can call for—”

“I’ve got him,” you cut them off, your tone firmer than you expected.

Vil doesn’t protest. He just loops an arm around your neck, tilting his head slightly as though he’s resigned to being carried like royalty. You can feel the weight of everyone’s stares as you carry him out of the studio, whispers trailing behind you like gossip at a high school cafeteria.

The walk to the medic feels like an eternity.

“You’re heavier than you look,” you mutter, trying to distract yourself from the way his perfume is overwhelming your senses.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Vil replies, his voice still sharp but lacking its usual venom.

When you finally reach the medic, you set him down gently, your arms trembling from the effort.

“You can leave,” Vil says as the medic begins their examination.

You nod, turning to go—but your feet refuse to move. Instead, you end up awkwardly sitting on a nearby chair, your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

You tell yourself it’s just to make sure he’s okay. That you’ll leave once the medic gives the all-clear.

Vil doesn’t say anything about your lingering presence. He keeps his eyes closed, his usual pristine mask slipping for just a moment as he exhales slowly.

When the medic finishes and declares him fit to leave, you finally stand. “Well, I should—”

“Thank you,” Vil says softly, cutting you off.

You freeze. For a moment, all you can do is nod before hurrying out of the room, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

Back in your dressing room, you sink into a chair and bury your face in your hands.

“What is wrong with me?” you groan.

Meanwhile, back in the medic’s office, Vil sits in contemplative silence, the ghost of your touch lingering like a memory he can’t shake.

You’re holding Vil’s phone like it’s made of glass, glaring at Rook’s number on your own screen.

“You sure I can’t just leave it at the studio?” you ask for the third time.

“Non, non, mon ami!” Rook’s dramatic voice practically vibrates through your speaker. “Vil has a most pressing engagement this evening, and the phone is vital to his work. You’re already such a dear for delivering it!”

“Couldn’t you do it?”

“Alas, I have an engagement myself. A critical affair, truly,” Rook sighs, his tone more playful than apologetic. “I’ve sent you his address. Bon courage!”

Before you can protest, the line goes dead, leaving you staring at the apartment address like it’s an execution order.

You’re in the car, grumbling to yourself as you mentally rehearse what you’ll say.

Here’s your phone. Bye.

Short. Simple. No emotional mines to step on.

But then you accidentally touch the screen, and his phone lights up.

And there it is. The lock screen.

It’s a selfie of the two of you from years ago, taken on some lazy afternoon. You’re both laughing, your faces smushed together awkwardly. You remember the moment vividly—Vil had just cracked a rare joke, one so unexpected it had you crying with laughter.

And now here it is, preserved like some cruel reminder of what you had.

Your stomach twists.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

The driver glances at you in the rearview mirror, concerned.

You’re ugly sniffling by the time you pull yourself together, the poor driver tactfully pretending not to notice. “Sorry,” you choke out. “Allergies.”

He nods slowly, clearly not buying it.

When you finally arrive at Vil’s penthouse—a sleek, modern building that screams successful celebrity—you take a deep breath and ring the doorbell.

Vil answers the door himself, wearing a loose, elegant cardigan and lounge pants that still manage to look couture. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you.

“You left this,” you blurt, shoving the phone into his hands.

He takes it, his gaze lingering on your face. “Were you crying?”

“No,” you lie, unable to meet his eyes.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

“I’m fine—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he says, his tone soft but firm.

Despite your better judgment, you step inside.

The interior hits you like a brick wall of memories.

The layout is different, but the details are achingly familiar. The same muted color scheme you’d picked out together. The same arrangement of throw pillows on the couch—even the same colors.

Your eyes dart to the bookshelf, spotting a framed photo of the two of you tucked discreetly among the décor.

It’s too much.

“You did this on purpose,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Vil’s gaze softens. “I didn’t want to forget."

Before you can respond, he goes to the kitchen to get something to drink, leaving you to drown in memories.

You’re sitting on Vil’s pristine couch, sipping tea that you can’t even taste. He’s seated across from you, the distance between you both palpable, like a chasm you’re too afraid to cross.

But Vil doesn’t wait this time. He doesn’t dance around the words.

“Why?” he asks, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

“Why what?” you whisper, even though you know exactly what he means.

“Why did you leave?” he snaps, the composure he always clings to starting to crack. “Why did you take my heart—my trust—and then shatter it into a million pieces? Do you have any idea what you did to me?”

You flinch, tears already pooling in your eyes. “I—I thought—”

“No,” Vil interrupts, standing abruptly. His hands tremble as he gestures, his voice rising. “You didn’t think. If you had, you would’ve seen how much I loved you, how much I—” He cuts himself off, his chest heaving.

You’re crying now, hands gripping your knees so tightly they hurt. “I didn’t want to hold you back, Vil. You had so much ahead of you, so much to achieve—”

“And you thought you were the thing holding me back?” he yells, his voice breaking. “You thought I would’ve been better off without you?!”

You nod miserably, choking on a sob. “I wanted you to thrive! I didn’t want to be the thing that kept you from reaching your dreams!”

Vil laughs bitterly, the sound hollow and laced with pain. “And you did just that. You leaving—you leaving—was the only thing that’s held me back. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. You haunt my dreams, my every waking moment. And I hate it. I hate you for it. So tell me—”

He drops to his knees in front of you, his face inches from yours as his voice cracks. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you don’t love me anymore, so I can move on. Please, I’m begging you.”

You’re sobbing now, shaking your head frantically. “I can’t. I—I don’t hate you. I never stopped loving you. I left because I thought I was doing the right thing, but I see now that I was so, so stupid—”

“Yes, you were,” Vil cuts in, tears streaming down his face. “So stupid. And so cruel.”

His sobs are raw, unrestrained, and they tear at your heart. You cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away his tears even as more fall. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never leave again. I’ll stay. Forever, if you’ll let me.”

Vil closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. When he opens them again, his voice is barely audible. “Don’t promise me that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” you say, your voice steady despite your tears. “I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”

Vil exhales shakily, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face in your shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispers, and for the first time in years, the weight between you begins to lift.

You’ve barely put the mop down when Vil calls from the living room.

“Hurry up with the tea,” he says without even looking up from his script. “And don’t forget to fold the laundry after this. Properly, please—last time you folded one of my scarves into an actual triangle. Who does that?”

You mutter a half-hearted "Yes, your majesty," and shuffle toward the kitchen. You’re halfway there when Rook bursts in through the front door, a bouquet in hand and stars practically bursting from his eyes.

“Ah, l’amour! C’est magnifique!” Rook declares, startling you so badly you almost drop the tea tray.

Vil raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the dramatics. “Rook, must you barge in unannounced?”

“Mais oui!” Rook exclaims, twirling dramatically. “How could I not visit when my dear friends have rekindled their eternal flame of passion? Look at you two! You, bossing them around, and them—obediently obeying every word like a loyal partner. True love has won!”

You roll your eyes but can’t fight the grin spreading across your face. Vil, however, looks less charmed. “They’re making up for years of terrible life decisions, Rook,” he says, deadpan.

“Oh, of course,” Rook says, his grin never faltering. “But love is in the air, and I, your humble admirer, could not be happier. Do not deny it—my heart soars!”

You and Vil exchange a look, both exasperated and oddly amused.

“Fine,” Vil says with a sigh. “If it makes you happy, Rook, then yes. True love has won. Now, will you let me enjoy my tea in peace?”

Rook gasps as though he’s been given the greatest gift of all time and promptly sits down, refusing to leave.

When you and Vil finally announce your relationship, the internet goes into an immediate frenzy.

The official post is simple: a photo of the two of you holding hands, captioned, "It’s official."

But the comments?

>"Wow, groundbreaking news. I couldn’t tell from the way Vil stared at them like they invented oxygen." >"You’re telling me they weren’t already dating? I thought this was public knowledge." >"The tension between these two could’ve powered the whole continent. About time." >"Wasn’t their last interview basically a rom-com in disguise?" >"Not even surprised. I’m more shocked it took this long."

Vil reads through the comments with a scoff. “Captain Obvious seems to be having their moment in the spotlight.”

You laugh, peeking at his phone. “I mean, they’re not wrong. We weren’t exactly subtle.”

Vil hums, a small smile tugging at his lips. “At least they approve. For now."

It’s late by the time you both get home, the quiet hum of the city fading behind you as Vil unlocks the door. The soft glow of the apartment feels comforting, like the kind of peace you didn’t know you needed until now.

You both kick off your shoes, and Vil immediately starts fussing with his scarf. You grab it before he can hang it up, putting it neatly on the rack.

As you settle on the couch, Vil joins you, resting his head lightly on your shoulder. For a moment, neither of you speaks, just enjoying the stillness.

“Do you ever wonder why we made it so complicated?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence.

Vil chuckles softly. “Often. But then again…” He tilts his head to look up at you, his violet eyes warm and full of something you can only describe as home. “Perhaps we wouldn’t have appreciated it as much if it had been easy.”

You hum in agreement, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You’re probably right. But still…”

Vil smirks, pulling you closer. “No more unnecessary complications. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” you whisper, letting yourself finally, fully relax.

Masterlist

[blueiscoool]

A Rare Chandelier by Alberto Giacometti, Bought for $300, Is Set to Make Millions at Auction

A chandelier bought for just £250 ($309) from a London antique store looks set to sell for millions at an auction at Christie's.

In 1960, British painter John Craxton was passing by the store when he recognized the unique Alberto Giacometti light fixture as a piece once owned by his late friend and benefactor Peter Watson, a collector and patron of the arts.

Swiss sculptor and painter Giacometti is best known for his elongated figure sculptures, such as "L'homme au doigt" and "L'homme qui marche I," some of the most expensive sculptures to sell at auction. Influenced by Surrealism, he created many unique pieces that spoke his "sculptural language," including this chandelier. He died in 1966, aged 64.

The bronze with golden-brown patina masterpiece is 53 inches tall and 60 inches wide, and has an estimated value of $1.9 million-$3.7 million. In 2018, a Giacometti chandelier sold for more than $9 million.

According to a preview of the auction catalog, Watson commissioned "Chandelier for Peter Watson" during a trip to Paris -- where Giacometti lived and worked -- circa 1946-1947. It was destined for the office of the famed London literary and arts magazine "Horizon," which Watson co-founded. The chandelier hung in the office until the magazine's closure in 1950, when it was packed away into storage.

A decade later, and after Watson's death, Craxton spotted the chandelier in the antique shop, bought it and hung it in the music room of his home in Hampstead, north London. Craxton died in 2009 and the chandelier is being sold by his estate.

Michelle McMullan, Christie's senior specialist and head of the 20th-century evening sales, called the chandelier a "sculpture in its own right."

McMullan said it was a blend of Giacometti's works and styles, unlike anything else she has seen from the sculptor, which is one of the ways in which the piece is unique.

"I just think it's a great combination of Giacometti's sculptural language, combined with the refinement of his works in design," she said.

Bt Hafsa Khalil.

[syluslnd]

RAAAAA I LOVE YOUR STORIES SM!!!! Anyway, be sure to take breaks and get much sleep. <3

Okay so on to the request, Reader and Sylus having their lil date night at a fancy restaurant. Reader gets up and she excuses herself to the bathroom. After a while, while sylus is waiting and waiting.. Reader never got back to the table. Sylus got up to look for her. He finds her eventually but! There was a group of guys surrounding her. Reader was in distress while trying to be polite to the group of guys. (She can fight them if she wants. But it's 1 vs 5 she didn't want to take the risk)

(this one is on you, either Reader sees sylus and goes to him and hides behind him and they both leave OR protective Sylus mode on. Go wild)

Anyway PLEASE AND THANK YOU 🙏

sylus protecting you

Sylus had gone all out for the evening, treating you to an extravagant dinner at a high-end restaurant, where crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead and soft classical music played in the background.

He'd been watching you intently, every movement, every smile-captivated by your joy as you two laughed, shared bites and basked in each other's company.

At one point, you excused yourself to the restroom, assuring him you'd be right back.

But minutes ticked by and the faintest hint of worry flashed across Sylus's eyes. He gave it a moment longer but then feeling something was off, he decided to go check on you.

As he moved through the corridor leading to the restrooms, his gaze darkened as he saw a group of five men surrounding you, blocking your way back. You were politely trying to defuse the situation, a slight tremor in your voice as you asked them to let you pass.

"Gentlemen" Sylus's voice cut through the air, calm, almost deceptively so. "I believe she asked you to step aside."

Relief flooded your face as you darted toward him, instinctively hiding behind him as you clutched his arm. Sylus glanced down at you with a reassuring smile, then turned his gaze back to the men, his face now a mask of deadly calm.

"Go back inside, kitten” he murmured, though his tone held an unyielding edge.

"You don't need to be here for this."

You shook your head, stubbornly refusing to leave. "I'm not leaving you alone with them" you insisted, voice wavering slightly but resolute.

Sylus chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent a chill through the air. "Stubborn as ever." He gave you a quick nod, as if to say, fine, but don't say I didn't warn you. Then, his entire demeanor shifted as he turned his full attention to the men, his eyes now burning with a dangerous intensity.

"You picked the wrong person to harass tonight” Sylus said, his tone cold as ice.

Without waiting for a response, he closed the distance between him and the nearest man, striking him so swiftly that the man staggered back, clutching his face.

"What's wrong?" Sylus taunted, voice dripping with cruelty as he caught the man by the collar, slamming him against the wall.

"You thought you'd pick on someone innocent? Let's see how brave you are now."

One of the others lunged at him, but Sylus sidestepped with ease, delivering a brutal punch to the man's stomach before grabbing his arm and twisting it with a sickening crack. The man crumpled to the floor, writhing in pain. "Stay down or I'll make it worse” Sylus growled, his voice deadly calm.

The remaining three men exchanged glances, but Sylus gave them no time to react. With ruthless efficiency, he knocked one down with a swift kick, then grabbed the next by his shirt, whispering, "If you so much as look at her again, I'll make you regret it."

In a final move, he threw the last man back against the wall, his gaze a merciless glint as he stood over him. "Let this be a lesson” he spat. "She's mine and you're nothing more than a pathetic waste of space."

You watched in a mix of awe and shock, seeing Sylus unleash a side of himself you rarely saw. He straightened, brushing off his suit as if nothing had happened, before turning to you, his expression instantly softening as he took your hand. "Come on, kitten” he murmured, his voice back to its usual gentle tone. "Let's get back to dinner."

As he led you away, you couldn't help but lean into him, heart pounding, your respect for him growing deeper than ever.

[harryspet]

well kept [epilogue] r. cameron

[warnings] dark!ceo!rafe x reader, size difference, billionaire!older!rafe, shy!reader with low self-esteem, reader is a person who stutters, boss x personal assistant, heavy abuse of power, kidnapping, NONCON/DUBCON, emotional/mental manipulation, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: a little wrapup of the story!

word count: 3.7k

In which you begin to question whether submission is the only escape.

well kept masterlist

8 months later …

Monotonously, you brought a wet rag across the large, rough-hewn wooden dining table that dominates the space of the dining room. It took you nearly thirty minutes to clean it thoroughly, wiping away every speck of dust before meticulously arranging the plates, napkins, and glassware with care, making sure everything was just as it should be.

It’s perfect when you get done. With a soft sigh, you flick off the chandelier of large glass lanterns, letting the natural light filter in through the tall windows, casting a gentle, golden glow across the room. You turn toward the kitchen, pulling off your cleaning gloves, ready to move on with your routine.

Then the doorbell rang.

You make your way through the downstairs of the expansive cabin, towards the front entrance. Glancing through the floor-to-ceiling windows as you make your way to the front door, you spot the culprit: a gray van parked down by the lake road. The sight feels out of place, a reminder of the outside world you rarely encounter.

Unlocking the front door, you huff as you pull the large piece of solid wood open. It always feels like it weighs a thousand pounds though you can’t recall Rafe ever having any difficulty with it. Still catching your breath, you greet the grocery delivery man, Connor, with a small smile. Before you, four-hundred dollars worth of groceries sits in plastic bags and you place a hand on your hips as you examine the challenge before you. 

“Let me help you carry them inside,” Connor offers kindly but you’re already shaking your head, “Mr. Cameron always tips so well, really, it’s the least I could do.”

“N-No worries, this is mmm-my workout for the day,” You reply, momentarily, taking in the fact that this was one of the few contacts you had with the outside world. Truthfully, Rafe had never explicitly said that Connor wasn’t allowed to carry the grocering inside but everytime you imagined Rafe coming down the stairs and spotting the two of you together.  If the young man wanted to keep receiving handsome tips from Mr. Cameron, he’d keep his interactions with you brief.

“Okay,” He seemed to shrug, confused, “I never see you in town … you work from home too?”

“Yeah,” You lie without hesitation, voice steady, “We’re just … homebodies.”

“What do you do for work? … Sorry if that’s intrusive. It’s just … this house is insane. You guys must be loaded.”

You laugh, and Connor shifts on his feet, smiling shyly back at you. To anyone else, the house in all it’s grandeur and isolation, must seem like a dream come true, “I help manage some stuff for Mr. Cameron’s business. I just help out where I can.” You hope it’s enough to end the conversation.

He still looks impressed, gaze wandering back to the cabin’s towering windows. As the silence stretches, you grab a few bags from the ground. He doesn’t immediately notice your discomfort, “I get it,” He adds, “Ya’ll are living the dream up here. Away from all the craziness.”

“Something like that,” You keep your face neutral until it falters. The slightest creak of floorboards from upstairs. Your heart skips a beat and you force yourself to grab a few more bags of groceries, “Well, I should get the ice cream inside before it melts. Thanks again, Connor.”

“I’ll get out of your hair, Mrs. Cameron,” He replied, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, “See in you two weeks. Take care, alright?”

You nod silently, turning on your heels, determined to keep your focus on the task at hand. The rhythmic thud of footsteps descending the stairs grows louder, but you force yourself to keep moving, your eyes locked on the kitchen ahead. With a small grunt, you heave the bags onto the kitchen island, the plastic crinkling as you place them down.

Just as you spin around to grab the rest of the groceries, you collide hard with a solid wall of muscle, Rafe’s chest, unyielding like a brick wall. The sudden impact knocks the breath from your lungs, and you stagger slightly, instinctively looking up to meet his piercing gaze.

“Everything okay?” He asks, most likely taking in your wild eyes. 

Wearing a button-up checkered shirt that tucked into well-fitted trousers, you assumed he’d been taking some video calls and wanted to look presentable. 

“Yeah … groceries,” You said, gesturing to the kitchen island, “Uhm, C-Connor just dropped them off.”

“That kid knows how to linger, huh?” Rafe placed his hands in his pocket, tongue poking at his gums as he thought something over. 

Kid. Rafe was probably only a handful of years older than him. “He’s just doing his job,” you said quietly, your heart racing as you busied yourself with the grocery bags, hoping to avoid further scrutiny. Rafe followed closely behind, a silent reminder of his constant presence, his need to control even the smallest interactions.

It wasn’t like Rafe was resistant to helping around the house. He cleaned after himself for the most part. Honestly, you’d expected just being a house wife to be easier than being a personal assistant, especially easier than being a barista. However, Rafe’s mountain estate was enormous, and Rafe decided against keeping the full staff he had at his Charlotte mansion. It was like he wanted you to handle all of it, to be completely busy, and maybe you wouldn’t get any ideas about wanting more for your life. 

He hadn’t realized that you stopped wanting more for your life when you woke up, drugged from whatever he had slipped you, and found him tucked between your legs, mouth wet from tasting you. The memory hit you as you leaned down to grab the next load of grocery bags. 

Not able to separate you dreams from reality, you weren’t immediately sure whether Rafe was really in between your thighs. Eyelids heavy, only your mouth opened, a strangled moan left your lips. Lifting your head, you looked down with blurry, hooded vision. You never slept in anything silk yet underneath your fingertips you could feel the fabric covering your chest. Your right thigh was hooked high over your hip, Rafe’s hand firm in the crook of your knee, holding your leg in place as he kept you open. 

Even in your weakest state, his touch was commanding, and controlling. You were barely awake and the pressure he was creating didn’t fully register until you were close, the orgasm fully bringing you to consciousness. 

Reality came crashing donw like it always did when you woke in the morning. Your life wasn’t your own anymore. Usually, you’d at least have a moment alone, a moment that was still yours before you were back on his routine. But now, even sleep seemed like a choice you no longer controlled, another thing he had taken from you.

You started to register your own breathing, the way your chest rose and fell rapidly, just as he crawled on top of you. Shirtless, his eyes still sleepy but focused enough on the task at hand. He easily pushed inside of you, and as your breathing calmed and you came down from your orgasm, he pressed his chest into yours. Your noses touched together as he sheathed himself inside you further, “You’re getting so good,” He murmured, voice smooth and full of praise, “Taking all of me. Squeezing me so tight.”

You had no choice but to meet his gaze, your eyes locking with his, accepting the intimacy forced upon you.You wouldn’t cry this time, you’d remain stoic, and numb. Mentally, you could try to feel nothing, no matter that you felt him across every nerve on your skin. His praise hung in the air, and his presence consume you. 

It occurred to you then that you had no idea how you’d gotten here. Sure, you knew the mistakes you’d made that led up to this point. You knew the lengths Rafe was willing to go to, the power he was willing to yield, lives he was willing to ruin. 

You turned your head to look around the room just as Rafe settled into the side of your neck, leaving a trail of kisses along your skin. Your lips parted to yelp at each deep stroke, each time he pushed against your cervix, but your eyes darted around the space. You’d been here before, your crotch pressed against a pillow, when Rafe forced you for the first time to make yourself orgasm. 

Usually, Rafe was relentless. But as soon as you could put together that you were in his house with no idea how you’d gotten there, his thrusts became sloppier, rushed, and he nestled against the side of your face. His lips brushed your ear, his breath uneven as he spilled inside of you. The intimacy of the moment felt strange, almost out of place, as if he was in a hurry to finish before you fully pieced together what was happening. His weight sagged against you, and for a moment, the room felt suffocating. 

He collapsed beside you, though he kept an arm draped over your stomach. Slowly, you lowered your leg until you were laying straight. 

You didn’t dare move. 

Rafe’s hand brushed against yours and you turned your head quickly to see a concerned look on his face, “Here, let me do it,” You felt that numbness that had been clouding you ever since you realized you controlled nothing. He easily procured the bag from your grip and you watched as he easily took the rest of the bags into his arms. 

When you both retreated back inside, you heaved the massive front door shut again, locking yourself back into your gilded cage. Surprisingly, he helped you unpack the groceries. It would’ve been faster to do on your own, you had to direct him a few times about whether certain items belonged in the fridge or pantry but you tried to be thankful for the help. 

You were putting up the canned goods in the grocery, neatly stacking them on the shelves of the bedroom-sized pantry, when you felt his eyes still watching you, “He sure does talk a lot though, doesn’t he?”

Better not to use his name, “The grocery guy?” You swallowed, speaking slowly in order to keep your voice steady. 

“Connor,” He said, voice dripping in malice. 

“He’s j-j-just being friendly,” You said, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Friendly,” He repeated, his tone mocking, “... You know, I don’t like him talking to you.”

“I-I didn’t encourage it,” You said softly, knowing whatever words you had would be a mistake, “If you don’t like him …I-I c-c-could g-g-go to the store from now on.” 

For a long moment, Rafe didn’t respond, and you found yourself just trying to maintain your composure, canned goods forgotten in your hands, as you waited for his verdict. 

“What do you want me to say, sweetheart?”

You were forcing his hand, asking for too much when you knew he couldn’t give it to you, “Thh-Thhh-That you’ll think about it?” 

Lately, you’d been testing his boundaries. Not answering everytime he called. And when you did answer, your tone was flat and indifferent. Wearing clothes from your wardrobe you knew he’d deem unflattering. Yoga pants or shorts were okay, never sweatpants. He wanted to see your every curve. Every inch of what he believed belonged to him. You were his wife after all, he’d paid a handsome price to get you here. 

Your obedience occurred in waves. A few weeks on and a few weeks off. It was the best way your brain could cope with the control. He’d grow happy, content with your behavior and that’s when you decided to flip a switch. Sometimes, Rafe was almost reluctant to punish you. 

A thought crossed your mind. A way to gain a small ounce of control. Though it came at the high cost of satisfying his urges. You decided to beg. He loved to hear you grovel and degrade yourself. It’s one of the only ways he gets himself off.

“Please,” You whispered, your voice trembling. In your baggy flannel and sweatpants, braids tied back in a messy bun, you stepped forward. You wanted to sound weak. Even weaker than your stammer usually made you sound, “I’ll go with a bodyguard. I-I’ll wear my ring. I won’t t-t-talk to anyone.”

It surprised him. You saw it in the way he shifted on his feet and his head tilted to the side curiously. It was in the way he watched you carefully, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. The words were poison on your tongue but it didn’t stop them from filling out. 

“Is that right?” His voice was low and dangerous, how it usually was when he was calculating a devious plan in his mind. 

When the silence decided to stretch again, you filled it, “I’ll be better. I-I know I–I-I’ve been dissapointing you,” You closed the distance until you were inches from him, letting him look down at you, as you turned your eyes downcast. 

“Hmm,” You felt his hand raise and press into the side of your neck, large thumb caressing your jaw, “Then you know that’s the kind of privilege like that you’ll have to work towards?” 

Being trapped here with him felt like you’d fallen to the bottom of the totem pole. Somehow being his assistant, hanging on his arm like arm candy, and keeping his cock warm underneath his desk was better than what you were now. At least then you could see your friends. You could interact with people other than Rafe, Topper and Eleanor. Then you had a job. You were a real human.

“Yes,” You began, “I’ll d-do anything.”

Rafe’s eyes turned down as you reached one of your hands into the waistband of your sweatpants and then beneath the fabric of your underwear. 

“Y/N…” His voice deepened and you looked up at him with big, wanting eyes. 

“Can I please touch myself, Sir?” You asked, “I-I want to shhh-shhhow you how good I can be.”

He kept as still as he could. His eyes were answering your question. He didn’t need to verbally give you permission.Maybe he stayed silent because if he spoke, the desperation in his voice might betray him. Rafe didn’t need his own release in that moment—what he craved more was the sight of you undone, vulnerable, completely under his control. Watching you touch yourself, watching your eyes roll back in pleasure, was enough to satisfy him. 

You bit down on your lip, moving your fingers over your soft folds. Gently, you rubbed yourself, teasing yourself. His gaze didn’t waver, but you saw the the way his nose flared, as he tried to keep his composure. 

“Please,” A soft moan escaped your lips as you worked yourself up, the motions becoming smoother as you grew wetter, “P-Please, Sir?”

Rafe inhaled sharply and watched as you reached further, towards your aching hole. He couldn’t see it exactly but you showed him with your eyes, with your parted lips and soft expression, that you dipped a finger inside of your aching hole. 

Despite how you feared him, how he’d ruined your life, you couldn’t help but enjoy the twisted way that you could control him. The tension in the room was thick and you saw the way he was fighting against exerting his control over you, over taking over. Even in a small way, you could make him bend to your will, you saw it in the way his fist clenched at his side. 

Your pace quickened in a way that brought you closer to the edge, the friction sending waves of pleasure over your skin. 

He reached out suddenly, grabbing ahold of your arm, his grip strong but not painful. He pulled your fingers away from underneath your waistband, “You don’t get to finish until I say so,” he murmured, his voice low and authoritative. You kept your expression neutral, though every muscle in your face tensed with the effort to hide your frustration, resisting the urge to press your lips into a thin line, “Take off your clothes for me, sweetheart.”

Your body frustrated, you hurriedly pulled down your sweatpants, exposing your lacy black underwear. Next, you removed the flannel, Rafe’s eyes fixed on your newly exposed skin. You would never admit it, but deep down, you always felt comforted by the fact that never seemed to bore of seeing you. Though you’d never had a traditional honeymoon period, now that you’d lived together for so long, you thought he might lose interest at some point. Everytime he saw you it was like he was seeing you for the first time. 

Every glance he gave you was filled with that same insatiable desire, as though you were still something to unravel. The thought made something flicker inside you, a mixture of fear, and something far more complicated.

You hesitated when it came to your bra and underwear, suddenly hyperaware that Rafe was fully clothed. There he stood in his work attire and part of you wanted to hold onto those inches of fabric, “All of your clothes,” Rafe added, sensing your hesitance, and he didn’t let you stall any longer. You yelped when he grabbed you by the waist, swinging your body onto the cold, marble countertop of the kitchen island. Determined, his fingers pried your underwear down your thighs and you watched them fall to the floor. Your thin bralette was next, and you raised your arms obediently, letting him tug it over your head. 

As soon as you were bare and freezing, Rafe’s lips curled into a devious smirk, “Finish,” He said, “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

His eyes were dark and hungry, watching every movement, every breath you took. Your instinct was to resist, to deny him, but you were too far gone. This is what you wanted in the first place. A trade. Your submission for a chance at freedom. You didn’t test his patience, knowing this was a better option than being bent of the counter. You complied, your hand slowly sliding down your stomach, until they were back between your legs. 

Slow, deliberate circles. 

You were so used to the feeling of shame, the heat you’d feel in your cheeks, the tears that would sting your eyes. Freezing, like a puppy out in the rain, you trembled. The shame was almost ritualistic, something to expect everytime you were intimate. Your body always seemed to respond, anyways. Maybe it was time for you to fully accept your part in this. Maybe you were beginning to crave that feeling. 

Your pace quickened, your fingers moving in urgent circles, and you felt your release building. 

“That’s it,” He said, “You’re already close, aren’t you?”

You nodded, fully aware of the smugness in his tone. Your fingers worked and your moans became louder, “Please,” You begged, that pressure between your legs growing unbearable.

“Please,” You heard yourself say over and over, feeling yourself come undone. His hands slowly move to rest on either side of you, trapping you between the cold marble and his towering figure, “Please, Rafe.”

“Come, sweetheart,” He finally said, “Let me see you fall apart.”

A whimper escaped your lips as your orgasm hit you almost painfully. Your release was inevitable, you’d practically perfected getting yourself off, and your body responded to his commands like a pupper on a string. Your body tensed, your back arching, as you gasped over and over. Your fingers faltered, slowly, but soon there were fingers brushing against that sensitive area again. 

You tried to scoot your body away but Rafe pressed your thigh with his large palm, keeping you pinned. Slowly, he moved his fingers, prolonging that sensation, drawing out your orgasm, “There it is,” He whispered, “Such a good girl when you want something from me, huh?”

You nodded weakly, agreeable. 

As you realized he was trying to work you up again, you panicked, “P-Please.”

“Hmm,” His fingers pressed harder, “Look at you. You know what? If you give me one more, I’ll let you go shopping next week. How’s that sound?”

“I-It hurts,” You whispered, voice braking. A tempting offer that you were now too overwhelmed to even consider. His fingers didn’t relent, rubbing against you harder now, dragging you toward another release whether you wanted it or not.

“That’s not an answer,” Rafe teased, his tone almost playful. He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear, “Come on, one more. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

Your body betrayed you again. The buildup was slower than your first orgasm, so torturous that tears began to fall down your cheeks. When your body was convulsing again, it was not as sweet as the first, but just as powerful. You came for him again despite how much it hurt, how raw and exposed you felt.

His grip on your thigh relaxed and you body went limp against the counter. You throbbed between your legs, so much so you weren’t sure if you would be able to walk without a limp. You felt his thumb brush over your cheek, wiping your tears, “Good girl. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Too tired to do anything but lay there, Rafe finally stepped back, leaving you shivering on the cold countertop. A coldness returned to his expression. You’d asked for this. Wanted something from him. Somehow, it felt like you hadn’t won anything at all. Now you were realizing this was a punishment, most likely for your behavior over the past weeks. 

Rafe turned his back on you, as if he hadn’t just pushed your body and mind to the brink, “Maybe I’ll take you shopping after all.” 

The promise of being let out of the house felt hollow. A reminder that your independence was something he could grant, or take away, on a whim. 

You lay there, motionless and speechless, trapped in the swirl of shame, regret, and anger. Then, without warning, a dangerous thought crept in, slipping through the cracks in your resolve: Maybe if I’m good enough, if I do everything he asks, I’ll get more freedom. More moments of escape.But before you could push that thought away, another surfaced, darker and heavier: Maybe I deserve this.

i hope you enjoyed this series!!

[too0bsessedformyowngood]

I know that we think the Wayne would be recognizable/well known by the general public because they’re rich and the work that they do (like Wayne Industries etc), but I think that the way most people would know them is by the shit post of a family they portray themselves to be.

Like growing up Dick 100% had a Vine that heavily included the Titans, sometimes Jason, and on rare occasions Bruce and Alfred. There is an infamous vine of Jason recording from the ground floor, camera pointed toward Dick before he yells “Do it for the Vine!!!” as Dick takes a running dive to the chandelier as you hear Bruce yell, “RICHARD NO” as he releases what is happening.

Tim has an instagram that is just photos he has taken of the family where they a) didn’t see him take the photo, or even know he was in the general vicinity and b) catching them in an embarrassing moment. There are photos like Bruce on a corner holding an umbrella and a wave of water crashing into him caused by a car that had just driven past, or another photo of Damian in the park feeding the birds and you can see that he has accumulated an army of pigeons around him.

Steph has a tiktok and will drag each member of the family to do dances with her. Duke, Dick, and Cass always look excited to join in, Tim looks awkward doing most of the dance but tries, Damian with just stand there glaring at the camera, and on occasion Steph is even able to drag Bruce in to join. Before Jason is revealed to be alive to the public there is just sometime glimpses of him in the back of the videos. There are often comments like “GIRL WHO IS THAT” or “am I going crazy or is there someone in the background”. There is a whole tiktok niche that is just people theorizing on what is happening in the background of the videos. There was also a trend of when the Nepo baby song came out of their friends making edits of them to it, the first one was done by Bernard and the comment was just “love you babe <3”.

I just think it is immensely funnier if people are able to recognize the Wayne because of the memes that come from their social media

[humanpurposes]

August

Part 2: Tell Me What You Want

You and Aemond are getting closer. Things aren't so hostile but there's a new kind of tension between you and it's starting to get unbearable.

Aemond Targaryen x Reader // Modern AU

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected p in v sex, sexual tension, competitive siblings

Words: 8k

A/n: thank u for waiting everyone, I had a rough few weeks of character building 😙 This is a three part series so one part to go

Nights like these come straight from a song, a music video from your favourite band, a moment in a book that stays with you for weeks, months. Crackles and pops come from the fire, smoke and embers rise into an inky sky dotted with stars. In a few months you’ll be looking back on the memory, wishing you could have bottled this feeling, or let it drag its feet so it would never have to end.

The wine has gone to your head. You’re blissfully fuzzy, your mouth slightly numb, a sickly sweet taste lingering on your tongue. Helaena and Aegon are in hysterics over something Daeron has said, a joke from years ago that the siblings had all forgotten until now. Even Aemond cracks a rare smile. You’re sat beside him tonight, leaning against his arm. His hand sneaks its way onto your thigh underneath a blanket, tracing patterns on your bare skin, dangerously close to the hem of your shorts.

The light from the fire looms over his face and you watch him like you did on the beach below Dragonstone. His smile is less refined than the rest of him. You’re not sure what makes you think this. Maybe it’s because he tries to hide it and shrink into himself. Maybe it’s because his mouth is a little crooked and you’re not used to seeing his teeth. 

He turns his head to look down at you. Your heart is frantic in your chest; his nose is so close to yours. You could tilt your head a little further and capture your lips with his, but you won’t, not in front of Helaena and the others.

His eye glances across the fire at his siblings. “Ah,” he mutters under his breath, understanding your hesitation.

You allow your head to settle against his shoulder, adjusting your body, letting yourself mould into the shape of him. “This is nice,” you say with a sigh, just loud enough that only he will hear.

“Hmm,” Aemond says, the sound of his voice and the steady beat of his pulse humming through your chest and limbs. You wonder what he’s thinking about, what’s happening behind that beautiful eye.

Settled against Aemond, a different sort of tipsy ensnares you. Your eyelids are heavy, your body feels at ease. You start to worry if you don’t get to bed soon you won’t make it at all.

Aemond nudges you softly. “You’re falling asleep there, darling.”

Darling.

“I think I should go upstairs,” you mumble.

“Come on,” he says, whisking away the blanket so the mild air jabs at your skin. His body is gone, his warmth is gone, but he’s standing above the bench, holding out his hand for you to take.

When you stand you stumble a little. Aemond’s hand clasps around your wrist to steady you. Your eyes meet his and you giggle to stifle your nerves.

“Lightweight” Aegon calls.

“Piss off,” you return with a grin as Aemond walks you towards the patio doors.

Somehow your arm finds its way to become intertwined with Aemond’s. He leads the way through the gold accents, tall windows and mirrors of the west gallery, but with the light gone it takes on a gloomier, eerier air, darkness reflected into darkness, broken by the chandeliers overhead. You gaze up at the soft light and sparkling crystals. In the morning you’ll probably have an awful hangover, but for now everything around you takes on a fascinating sort of beauty. You hardly realise you’re losing your balance and falling into Aemond. 

He holds your hand as he guides you up the stairs, along the route towards the east wing. When you come to the corridor where your room is, Aemond’s arm snakes around your waist. His fingertips linger softly against your skin, above your shorts where your top has ridden up a little. You don’t mind– gods, he could do anything to you and you wouldn’t mind. 

With this thought, you look at him. Your legs move slowly but synchronised, one slow step after another. You lift a finger and trace it along the length of his nose, down to the little cleft at the tip.

He huffs a laugh. “What?”

“I like your nose,” you say.

“Thank you.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“I like you being honest.”

You both come to a halt when you reach the end of the corridor and the door to your bedroom. Aemond’s hand slips from your waist but he lingers, watching you, his eye roaming over your face. You don’t quite reach for the door handle yet.

“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say. It’s not dreadfully far to get from the garden to the moat room, and besides, you know your way around Dragonstone now.

“I didn’t have to.” Aemond takes a step into you, placing a wide palm at your side and guiding your back against the wall. He sighs slightly as he exhales and excitement floods in your gut. “Maybe I just wanted to get you alone.”

What can you possibly say to that? The lowness of his voice has rendered your mind useless. But you’ve been wondering if that’s what he thinks when he looks at you. It’s hard to tell with Aemond. His pupil is blown wide, wine, darkness, wanting. His lips are parted and each breath he takes is a gentle stroke of air on your skin.

“You could have just said,” you utter.

His hand tightens at your waist. “Now where would be the fun in that?”

His lips are curled at the corners and it’s just too inviting. He inches closer into you and like a jolt of electricity has sparked in your bloodstream, you surge into him. You melt into one another so effortlessly, lips and tongues, his hands on your sides pulling you into him, your arms around his neck and your fingertips teasing his hair.

It’s been inevitable, hasn’t it? All his smug glances, the way he catches your eye in a crowded room or across the garden. It’s pure energy, hot and visceral, every part of you overwhelmed and yet craving more.

He pauses for a breath and kisses you again, then pauses again. He makes a humming sound in his throat and squeezes your body in some kind of finality before he steps away.

You don’t understand it. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, of course you haven’t,” he says quickly. He takes a breath and runs his hand through his hair, his gorgeous, gorgeous hand. “I just… it wouldn’t be fair on you right now.”

You frown. You know you’ve pushed past your usual limit of drinking, and Aemond seems at ease, not in a state where he should be questioning his decisions. But then that probably makes him the sensible one and you haven’t realised how far gone you are.

“No, you’re right,” you say, unable to look away from his eye.

Aemond swallows thickly. “I want to, I really want to.”

“Me too,” you say, heart starting to sink, or is that just the wine?

“Gods, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you’re reaching for the collar of his t-shirt, pressing your fingertips into the fabric and the hard points of his collarbone underneath, “we can be grown ups about this.”

He curls his hand around your wrist. “We get on, don’t we?”

You shrug, hoping he’ll think you’re not that bothered. “I think so.”

“And I think we could have some fun together.”

“Fun?” 

“When we’re both in the right mind.” He lifts your hand away from his chest and brings it to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss against your knuckles. His eye stays fixed on your face, bright blue and hypnotising. You watch his lips, savouring the feeling of them against your skin. You could pull him into you, beg him to kiss you until you can’t breathe…

“Because you’re cute,” he says with a soft click of his tongue.

“Cute,” you repeat.

He leans in to peck your lips. It’s quick, nice, cute.

“Sleep well,” he says and turns away, wandering idly along the corridor. 

“You too,” you say after him, finding your voice feeble and quiet. Before he disappears from your sight you throw open the door to your bedroom and hide yourself away inside.

Back against the closed door, you breathe and clasp your fingers over your mouth to hide your smile from the empty room.

The next day you skip breakfast, needing a lie-in, some painkillers and a large glass of water, provided by Helaena knocking on your door long after you’re usually awake. 

“I didn’t think you were that bad last night,” she says, opening one of the windows.

“I’m not usually a wine drinker, maybe that’s what killed me off,” you grumble, wincing at the light she lets in. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe you just need the sleep, maybe it’s the image you’ve been replaying of Aemond’s body pressing into yours and his vague promise floating around in your head. “I think we could have some fun together…”

You snap yourself out of that pretty quickly considering his sister is perched on the edge of your bed.

“And Aemond walked you up, that was nice of him.”

Apparently there’s no escaping it. “Yeah, it was.”

“So… he was all over you in the garden last night.” When you drag yourself to sit up Helaena is looking eagerly at you.

You blurt out without even thinking, “nothing happened.” You need to get it off your chest, but saying it out loud you don’t feel especially relieved, more embarrassed.

“No of course not,” Helaena says with a mischievous grin. “But you’ve been rather friendly with each other since your little misunderstanding.”

Enough for his siblings to notice at the very least. “It’s not weird, is it?”

“Is what weird?”

You tilt your head with a pleading look. 

“Oh babe,” she says. “No, not weird at all. If anything it’s a little obvious, Aegon’s been waiting for the penny to drop for weeks.”

You cover your head with your hands and groan. For you, attraction, liking someone, has always come with a sense of humiliation. Your friends don’t get your type, and while Aemond is a little unconventional for you he fits the bill well enough, tall, smart, not too boisterous. He also just happens to be pretentious but subtle and perhaps even sweet… the more you think about him the deeper you’re digging yourself into this hole. 

Healena is clearly in hysterics but is trying not to laugh too much to spare you. “It’s cute actually, Aemond’s been a bit… well it’s nice to see him being excited about something for once.”

Once you’ve regained a bit of composure and gotten over the fluttering feeling in your chest, you say, “he kissed me last night.”

“Liar! What happened to ‘nothing happened’?”

“I thought maybe he was a bit drunk.”

“Are you joking? He looks at you like a lost puppy.”

“Please don’t tell me that.”

“No look, here’s what you do. You and him are living under the same roof for another, what, two weeks? What have you got to lose? Live a little, flirt with him, and don’t overthink it.”

If only ‘don’t overthink it’ was a sentence that could actually compute in your brain. 

You’re lying in a lounger by the pool in one of your bikinis, having moved on from Crime and Punishment to Frankenstien. Your body is lathered with suncream, the scent of artificial coconut clinging to your skin. The sun makes you sweat, but you’re enjoying the position you’re in.

Then you take a breath and you smell the cigarette smoke.

You don’t move your head too obviously, your sunglasses hiding where your eyes are looking, but you see Aemond at the edge of the patio, as close as he can get to you without stepping onto the grass. He’s dressed in a black t-shirt and shorts, sunglasses perched on his nose as he watches you. Even from a distance his gaze burns into your skin, you can feel it writhing there.

You wish you could be closer, so you could hear his inhales and exhales, see the flexes of his hands as he lifts the cigarette to his lips, the pout as he blows smoke into the air. It’s intoxicating. It’s infuriating.

He disappears into the house before you’ve reached the end of your chapter. You tut to yourself, furious you hadn’t read the lines fast enough so you could accidentally run into him on your way inside. You swing your legs round and slip on your pair of sandals. “Don’t overthink it,” you whisper to yourself. So what if he looks but never comes over? So what if he left whatever this is between you as a wine-fuelled kiss outside your bedroom? When all he had to do was open the door, lay you down on the bed. You would have said yes, sober or not. Would he?

Don’t overthink it. Whatever happens happens.

You leave your towel and book by the pool, but you need a drink to fight off the dry feeling in your mouth. Or maybe you’re just restless. Maybe you need something else to do than sit around and wait.

You go into the kitchen, thankful to see there isn’t anyone around. No Criston sitting at his laptop, no Alicent leaning on his shoulder. There’s noise coming from the staff kitchen, tonight’s dinner prep, which won’t be served for a good few hours. 

In the fridge you find an array of drinks, all sorts of iced teas and flavours of lemonade all in glass bottles. You pick the first thing you see, something pink and labelled as raspberry flavoured. As you’re digging through a drawer trying to find a bottle opener, you hear a few soft footsteps against the tiled floor. There’s a faint scent of cigarettes and aftershave.

“Want some help?” Aemond says.

Conveniently, you close your fingers around the bottle opener. “No, actually, I’m all good,” you say, turning around to flick off the metal cap. 

His eye follows your hand as you place the cap and the opener down on the counter, as you bring the bottle to your lips and take a small sip so that the drink doesn’t fizz.

He’s a friendly distance from you, not close to touching you, but every muscle in your body tenses. You’re so aware of everything he does, the subtle change in his gaze, how his eye darkens as he tilts his head down to look at you, how he holds his mouth, how his nose twitches ever so slightly when he breathes.

And you’re painfully aware of how indecently dressed you are, how good you thought you looked when you last checked your reflection, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of your neck. Can he see it? Does the heat drive him to restlessness too?

“This is nice,” he says, looking over the bikini, a shade of blue that compliments your complexion perfectly. You see his hand twitch at his side. 

Is he thinking about touching you? Is he desperate to pull you in like he did the other night?

“Do you think so?” you say, leaning back on one hand against the counter, waiting for his eye to come back to yours. “You’ve never complimented any of my outfits before, Aemond.” 

His eye seems to light up when you say his name. “Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate them.”

You take another casual sip from the bottle, watching how his throat bobs when he swallows. 

He takes another step forward. He’s testing the waters, you realise, seeing how close he can come before you squirm. You take your weight off your hand on the counter, closing the distance by just another fraction.

“Did you think about me last night?” he mutters. You’re close enough that you can hear him, even when he speaks under his breath. 

“After you left me standing outside my bedroom door?”

He raises a brow.

“Maybe I did.”

“I thought about you,” he says.

“But you didn’t do anything about it.”

With one more step he’s pressed against you, the counter digging into your lower back. Aemond puts his hand at your waist, his thumb resting on your front, not firmly, but noticeable. Your breath hitches.

Aemond smiles to himself. “I said we should both be in the right mind, and you agreed, didn’t you?” His hand trails, moving down to the waist of your bikini bottom. He slips two fingers under the fabric, sliding them up, along the conjuncture of your thigh and your hip. 

You dig your teeth into your lower lip for a moment, determined to keep your composure, desperate to deny him the satisfaction even though it’s already written all over his face. He can see you’re breathless, that your heart is racing in your chest.

The pull to him is like gravity, something that binds the world together, crushing and impossible to deny. 

He leans over your, his lips hovering by your ear, circling an arm around your middle. You can smell the beads of sweat on his neck, the scent of his shampoo, something naturally him that you think will linger in your mind for a while. “So why don’t we stop tip-toeing around each other and enjoy the rest of the summer?”

Why shouldn’t you? Really, why? It’s been so long since you felt a draw like this, since you felt wanted. He’s grovelled enough surely and something about his mask of perfection slipping to reveal something primal and reckless, excites you. Proud Aemond Targaryen, digging his hands into your flesh, grazing his lips over your ear, your jaw–

Your eyes flicker to the door. Daeron’s standing in the doorway in his tennis gear, face pink and sweat dripping from his silver hair.

Aemond notices you’ve frozen. He slowly pulls away and glances over his shoulder. His posture instantly shifts. 

“Alright, kids?” Daeron says, shoulders swaying as he walks into the kitchen.

Aemond’s standing in front of you, nudging you with his hand to keep your body concealed behind his. From over his shoulder you watch Daeron take a bottle of iced tea from the fridge. He opens the cap on the side of the counter.

“Don’t stop on my account. I’m not even here.” Daeron chugs from the glass bottle, making a smacking sound with his lips and taking a breath with a smug “ah!” when he pulls it away from his mouth.

Aemond turns to face you. “Thinks he’s so fucking funny.”

Daeron shoots you a wink. With the moment firmly crushed under his younger brother’s Asics tennis shoes and Adidas socks, you slip from Aemond’s grip.

“I’m gonna get my book,” you say.

Aemond angles his brows like he’s begging you to stay, but he lets you go out to the garden without much more of a fight.

His lingering stares and double takes are becoming more brazen now.

You sit with your parents that night at dinner. Your father tells you about the golf club on the neighbouring island of Driftmark, which Corlys Velaryon is insisting the men should all go to visit sometime this week. It’s not far, a quick journey on one of the yachts. Your mother had gone into the town today with Alicent and shows you the photos she took of some adorable clay figures of animals and seashells in a local craft shop.

This doesn’t seem to deter Aemond at all. He’s where he usually is, at the head of the table, looking over at you every so often while Helaena speaks at length to him. You catch snippets of this one-sided conversation, sea birds and prey, wingspans and something about dinosaurs?

The distance between you is starting to feel unbearable.

After dinner Aegon leads you and the others to the library where he rummages through a floor to ceiling shelf of DVDs.

You and Aemond find yourselves sat together on the same sofa, with space for an extra person between you. Helaena is elated when she finds Dreamfyre the cat curled up on one of the arm chairs, scooping her up into her arms and hugging her close to her chest like a teddy.

Daeron takes the other arm chair, his arms full of snacks. He throws a packet of salted popcorn at Aemond and it hits him on the blind side of his face. “Fuck, sorry.”

Aemond turns his head to you and gives you a pointed look. 

You tilt your head. Ignore him, you think, then realise the absolute insanity of thinking that Aemond can hear what you’re saying in your head. You huff through your nose, a smile on your face, and shuffle closer to Aemond so you can claim the popcorn. The fact that you’re sidled up to him and his arm has found its way around you to get more comfortable is a happy coincidence. 

“A-ha!” Aegon presents his finding like it’s an ancient heirloom; a copy of American Psycho. 

Helaena groans. 

“It’s a masterpiece,” Aegon insists.

“Yeah, I so want to spend my evening watching some self absorbed investment banker brutally murder women.”

“Even if he’s played by Christian Bale?”

Helaena does a double take of the DVD cover. “Put that shit on right now.”

As Patrick Bateman goes through his psychotically perfect skincare routine, does crunches to the sounds of screaming women and lodges an axe in Jared Leto’s face to ‘Hip To Be Square’, you and Aemond melt into one another. It hits you how settled you feel lying against Aemond’s chest, your ear against his ribcage so you can feel his heartbeat, your head rising and falling with his breathing. His fingers start to trace over your arm, up and down, lulling your mind until you’ve forgotten to be nervous about being so close to him, so self conscious that you might be in the wrong position, how your cheek might look slightly squashed against him.

It’s not very ‘Letterboxd enthusiast’ of you to be thinking less about the film, instead wondering if Aemond will walk you to your room tonight, if he’ll kiss you again, if he’ll ask to come into your room and shed the simple layers of your t-shirt and jeans.

You press your lips together. You haven’t touched any wine tonight, and neither has he. 

Once the credits have started rolling you sit up, noticing how stiff your body is having been in the same position for the entire length of the film. You stretch your arms out and catch Aemond looking at you, trying to hide a smile.

Aegon, Helaena and Daeron are arguing about the next film.

“Scream.”

“Aegon, please, no more horror.”

“But Matthew Lillard!”

“What?” You say, meeting Aemond’s eye.

He makes that cryptic humming sound again. “Feel like going to bed?” He says quietly.

Your stomach drops, but you want to play this cool. Don’t overthink it. Don’t overthink it. “Whose?”

Aemond half smiles. “Mine.”

You make your excuses. Aemond makes his. As soon as he shuts the door to the library the boys start howling like dogs.

Your heart is racing. Every part of you is screaming at you, begging for more contact, to have that beautiful eye on you again.

“Sorry about my family,” Aemond says, running his hand through his hair. You’re trying to pinpoint the notes of his aftershave, sweet and dark, like black coffee and honey. “As you can see they’re all very good at minding their own business–”

Your hands are on the sides of his jaw, against the gentle sharpness of his silver stubble, pulling his lips into yours. 

Aemond immediately offers you his hunger. It takes you off-guard for a moment, how he grabs at your waist, pushing his body against yours so he can devour you how he wants to. His mouth moves down to your neck and you sigh without meaning to.

“Moaning for me already?” he teases, dragging his teeth over your skin.

“You fucking wish,” you say but your voice sounds utterly pathetic at the feeling of his hands on you, your hips, the backs of your thighs, cupping between your legs. “Aemond…”

“Sorry, I’m getting carried away,” he says, kissing up along your cheek and your temple. He pulls away from you, pupil blown wide in the darkened corridor, roaming your not quite flattering David Bowie t-shirt. He reaches for your hand and presses a peck against your knuckles.

You let him lead you towards the east wing, to the corridor where you’d usually part ways if you were going to your own bedrooms. Once you’ve gone past the door that would lead you back to the moat room, you start to feel lightheaded, disorientated. Somehow it feels nice.

Your heart beats more furiously with every door you pass. You don’t know which one will lead to his room, but there’s one at the very end, which he seems to be eyeing.

“Aemond?” You’ve stopped walking.

He grips your hand tighter. “Yes?”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“Oh. No, that’s fine.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t– don’t say sorry. Fuck, I should be the one apologising, I didn’t– I thought you wanted to?”

Seven hells, I’ve made it awkward. He hasn’t misread you, you’ve played into everything he’s given you, but something’s still holding you back. His grip on your hand is getting loose, his gaze is dropping. The moment is slipping and you can’t let it happen.

“Wait,” you say, reaching for him. Your fingers close around his forearm, slim but strong. “I don’t know, I’m not great at asking for what I want.”

His eye comes to yours, determined, more intense than you think you’ve seen before. “That’s alright. You can tell me, what do you want to do?”

You take a moment to consider, your eyes tracing the curve of his lips, the shape of his nose. You hold your breath so you can listen to his. You want this. You want this. You want him. “I want to kiss you more.”

He takes your hands in his, circling his thumb over the delicate skin of the inside of your wrists. “Yeah?”

“And, I want to be near you.”

He lifts your right hand and replaces his thumb with his lips. A surge of wanting shudders through your limbs. “And?”

You close your eyes and whisper. “And I want you to make me come.”

He smiles against your skin. “How do you want me to do that?”

“With your mouth,” you say. You feel his fingertips at the pulsepoint of your left wrist. You love watching his hands, you can picture them perfectly in your head. “And your fingers.”

“There’s a good girl,” he says.

Aemond steps away from you, opening the door and inviting you inside. You weren’t sure what you were expecting from his room but this seems about right, dark wood panelled walls like the rest of the rooms in the house. The curtains are wide open, overlooking the front of the house and you’re high up enough that you can see the sea, or you would in the daylight. He has bookshelves, mostly full of fantasy novels, children’s books. He explains most of these are from his summers spent here as a kid, plus a few text books, Comparative Politics, The History of Philosophy…

“The impressive collection of classics is at my place in King’s Landing.”

“I’m sure it is impressive,” you say. You wonder if you’ll ever get to see it.

He has a vanity, a hairbrush, a few bottles of aftershave, face serums and deodorant all placed neatly underneath a mirror. He has posters on the walls, all in black frames and hung in an orderly fashion, of sci-fi shows and movies and bands that were popular ten years ago. There’s another stack of shelves by the wardrobe with trophies, plaques, medals, photographs of Alicent with four silver-haired children, a certain little boy with a tennis racket in his hands, another with a fencing mask under his arm.

“I haven’t changed the room much,” he mutters.

“It’s adorable,” you say.

His arms circle around your middle, pulling you in close so he can kiss your neck again. “You’re moaning again,” he says when you let out a heavy breath.

“No I’m not, I’m just breathing.”

“Liar,” he teases. One of his hands slides along your body to your rear and he squeezes you through your jeans. 

When you catch a glimpse of a silver chain under his collar you’re suddenly insatiable. Your hands are clawing at his t-shirt and he wastes no time in pulling it off, coming back to kiss you like he cannot bear to be parted from you, and kissing him feels as perfect as it did that night when you both tasted like wine. 

You don’t care where your clothes fall, which pile of fabric is his, which is yours. He lays you down on the bed with a gentle but commanding grip on your neck. He kisses you over and over again, grinding a growing hardness between your legs against the fabric of your panties. He smothers you, his bare body sinking against yours, your lips grazing against his skin, your legs parting to make room for him, desperate for the friction. 

He works his way down, trailing his tongue along your throat, kissing your bare chest, teasing your nipples with his lips, tongue and teeth. Maybe you are moaning. The thrill of it echoes through your body and serves to stir the wanting in your belly, the tightness that’s going to drive you insane.

He keeps kissing down, pausing when he comes to your panties. He looks up at you, lips parted, your fingers starting to slip into his hair. “Look at you,” he says. “You’re so hot when you’re needy.”

He’s barely touching you and you can’t take the teasing.

He doesn’t keep you like this forever. He kisses around it, the soft skin of your inner thighs before he finally, finally pulls your underwear down your legs. He starts slowly, gently, each swipe of his tongue tortuous and divine. 

And usually your mind would wander. You’d try so hard to focus on the pleasure, think of some depraved scenario so you could actually come. Aemond commands your attention and you can’t bring yourself to look at anything other than the sight of his mouth working against your cunt, the obscene sounds he makes, the roughness of his voice when he stops to remark how wet you are, how good you’re doing for him.

Your grip of his hair tightens. You don’t worry if it will hurt him, not with the way he whines when you do, how his body jerks as he tries to grind his hips into the mattress. 

It’s too much and it’s perfect. It builds and builds until it bursts and the pleasure tears through your body. Aemond holds your legs apart to see you through it, until you’re shaking and begging him to stop.

When he lifts his head he’s as breathless as you are, his brow dewy with sweat. “How was that?”

“Good,” you say, then decide that isn’t quite enough. “Really fucking good.”

Aemond smirks. His eye stays on your face as the tip of his middle finger rests at your entrance. As soon as he slips inside, your body is weightless. You could almost laugh to yourself, all those times you’ve looked at his hands and now you know you were right. He feels good, thicker, longer than your own digits, reaching deeper than you ever could.

He makes a game out of this, seeing how he can make you react, praising every movement of your hips, every noise you make, how many times he can get you to come.

When it’s done and you can’t take any more, he lies beside you, putting his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest. You let your hand settle on his stomach, on the patch of hairs that trails down to the waist of his boxers. 

“You don’t have to…” he says, as you start to feel over his skin with your fingertips.

“Do you mind if I return the favour?” you ask, sitting up and leaning on your palm, looking down at him.

Aemond stares at your face. “Of course, as long as you want to.”

“I do,” you say,  enjoying the way his expression lightens.

You position yourself along his body and rid him of the boxers. His cock is an impressive size, a little intimidating, but you’re already craving the feeling of him in your mouth, hard and needy, especially after he’s watched you come undone so many times. 

You trail your tongue along his length, teasing over the tip and savouring the taste of him. You work him with your mouth and your hand where you can’t take him. You love the sounds he makes, his sighs and moans.

“Good girl,” he coos, “can that pretty mouth take more?”

You want to, you want him to feel good. You look up to him, trying to take more every time your mouth moves down.

Aemond watches you in wonder. He gathers your hair in one hand. “Tap my leg if it gets too much.”

You hum in agreement.

He pushes your head down. “Relax,” he utters, “fuck, just relax, you’re doing so good.”

You hardly understand how it makes you want more, the weight of him, the discomfort in your jaw, but you like it. You feel your stomach starting to tighten again.

Aemond pulls your head up and you catch your breath, quickly working your hand over his cock. He’s squirming now, pleading for release. You move your mouth to his balls and he doesn’t last long after that.

He pulls you by your hair again, prodding the tip at your lips. “Swallow it,” he growls as he slips into your mouth once more. You feel the warmth over your tongue and he comes, wincing slightly at the taste, letting it dribble from the corner of your mouth. 

You must look like a fucking mess, his cum dripping from your mouth, your hair ruffled from his grip, trying to catch your breath as his cock softens.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he utters. 

You fall asleep in his bed, your head against his chest and his arms around you. As you drift off you try not to think about the summer’s impending end, that the days are already getting shorter.

Don’t overthink it.

You think you could allow yourself to enjoy this, the light feeling in your body, the relief of being held by someone else, the sound of Aemond’s fluttering breath soothing you to a deep, dreamless sleep.

When Helaena suggested that you join her and the boys for tennis, you thought it meant you might actually get a chance to play. You and Aemond could have played a doubles match. He could have given you some pointers on your technique, and if you won he could have looked at you with that smug look of his. Or you could have gone head to head. He would have won, inevitably, but he’d be looking at you with a competitive intensity which could easily be switched into a different kind of eagerness.

You’ve not got a terrible view. Aemond’s face is dark with determination, every part of him drenched with sweat and his hands gripping the racket like it’ll purposefully try to jump out of his grasp. He grunts every time he hits the ball, and he does it with a terrifying amount of power. 

“Match point!” Aegon’s made himself comfortable in a plastic chair at the side of the court, sipping bottles of beer from a cooler box he made Daeron carry over.

At first you were worried you might have to watch Aemond lose this. Daeron started off strong. He’s young, slim, quick, but he’s running out of stamina. This is where the match turned in Aemond’s favour. He hasn’t tired out so easily. 

Daeron serves. Aemond sends the ball flying back. Daeron has to run for it but he just manages to hit it into Aemond’s court. And while Daeron’s far over on the left, Aemond hits it to the right. There’s no chance that Daeron will get it and he knows it, not even running for it. But Aemond’s hit it hard, if it’s out of the court then Daeron has another chance to win.

You all freeze. Aegon leans forward, eyes on the line and…

“In!”

“Fuck!” Daeron cries.

You and Helaena break into cheers. Aegon wipes his brow as if he’s the exhausted athlete and helps himself to another beer.

Aemond looks at you, trying not to smile. He offers his hand to Daeron but he’s having none of it.

He comes straight to you, lifting you into a spin like you’re in a rom-com.

“Why do I feel like you’ve just won Wimbledon?” you say as he sets you down.

“Please, this is more competitive than Wimbledon,” Helaena says, evidenced by the fact that Daeron has grabbed his racket and is already walking back towards the house.

“It’s a valuable lesson to learn how to lose gracefully,” Aemond insists. 

On the walk through the gardens, Aemond keeps his arm around you, even when you protest that he’s literally wet with sweat. Not that you mind, you’re in a t-shirt and some sports shorts you’ve borrowed from Helaena. It’s all very sweet, very intimate all of a sudden, after you’ve spent the last few weeks acting like you dislike each other.

It’s early evening and the sun is inching closer to the horizon. The crashing of waves surrounds Dragonstone, no matter where you stand, the tennis court, the gardens, the front drive. Helaena and Aegon announce they’re going to have a few more drinks on the patio. And Aemond leads you upstairs to his room.

The moment the door is shut his lips are on yours, hands lightly touching your jaw. Is he afraid he’ll douse you with sweat, that his hands will feel too rough on your skin, that he’ll break you somehow?

There’s a nagging feeling in your heart and in the back of your head, the overwhelming urge to be close to him, to feel him. You stumble over yourselves and you drag him towards the bed by the collar of his tank top.

He’s on top of you, palms on either side of your head, his hair falling over your forehead, keeping you flat on the mattress with his body. “Don’t get me all worked up, darling, I need to shower–”

You interrupt him with quick, needy kisses. You can’t get enough of him, the softness of his mouth, his heat, the taste of him on your tongue.

He has to drag himself away, grinning, stroking his jaw with the backs of his fingers. “You’re tempting,” he muses.

“Not tempting enough,” you say with a playful pout.

“Give me two minutes.”

“I’ll be counting.”

He huffs a laugh. “That’s a good girl.”

Your brain short circuits. In that moment you’d wait for hours if he asked you to. 

He strips off in front of you, his trainers, his top, the shorts and the pair of boxers. You sit on the edge of the bed, hypnotised as you watch his muscles and tendons flex under his skin, all his sharp edges, the contented look on his face.

He leans over you once more, kissing you lightly on your head before he disappears into his ensuite. You listen to the rush of water, the sound of his footsteps when you can catch them. You imagine him there, water running over his body, hands working some shower gel into a lather and rubbing it into his skin. 

You take shallow, steady breaths, telling yourself you’re not trying to commit the smell of his sheets to memory. But you feel comfortable here, in his bed, in his room, in this small fraction of his world. There’s only so much you know of him, the books he likes, how quiet and commanding he can be, how his mouth feels and how his brow scrunches when you make him feel good. You’re sitting amongst fragments of him now, the sports trophies, the old photos, the text books, trying to piece it all together into the man you fell asleep with last night.

What’s his place like in King’s Landing? You bet it’s in some expensive neighbourhood, Visenya’s Hill or one of those squares by Regent’s Park. You picture marble surfaces, vintage furniture, rows and rows of books, dark wood floors, deep shades of blue and green, tall windows, maybe a bed for Vhagar.

There’s so much you want to know about him, so many questions you could ask.

The shower stops. You try to act as casually as you can and like you haven’t been restless on his bed waiting for him to come back to you.

When the door opens a cloud of steam wafts into the bedroom. Aemond has dried himself off mostly, ruffling the towel in his hair. You can taste the sweetness of the water on your tongue, and breathe in the scent of his shampoo. His eye is on you as he tosses the towel aside and approaches the bed.

He kisses you tenderly, slowly tugging away your t-shirt, then the shorts. Once you’re naked his demeanour shifts. His hands are firm on your thighs, spreading your legs apart, holding you down as he drags your panties to one side and devours you. 

You can’t stop moving but it doesn’t matter, Aemond keeps you right where he wants you, circling and pressing with his tongue where you need him. Has he remembered from last night? Has he thought about this since?

When you come undone Aemond hums lowly in his chest, pleased, satisfied, to a point. He grinds his hardened length against your bare cunt, effortless with the aftermath of your orgasm. Each push of his head against your clit sends a shockwave through your spine. He’s teasing you, you can see it on his face.

You let out a quiet noise from your throat.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Aemond says sweetly.

You try to angle your hips and rock against him, but he knows what your game is and keeps his tortuous movements steady.

“That’s not good enough, tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you mutter, looking away from his face.

He’s having none of that. There’s a weight on your neck, his hand, forcing your gaze back to him. “Say that again.”

He’s slowed down, any hint of pleasure is fading quickly. You can’t let it happen, you need more. “I want you to fuck me,” you say again.

Aemond leans into you, forehead against yours, breath hot against your open mouth. “Beg me for it.”

“Please,” you whisper, lips grazing over his, “please fuck me, Aemond.”

The tip of his cock slips down to your entrance. He whispers in your ear, “is no condom okay?”

You nod. “I’m on the pill.”

Without any more preamble he slowly starts to rock his hips again, inching inside. You gasp at the stretch, clinging onto his shoulders as he works himself into you. You let your forehead rest against his chin, focusing on him, the little grunts he makes as he fills you.

“So fucking tight,” he whispers. Maybe he’s just as desperate and needy as you are.

His thrusts are shallow at first, but he presses in deeper. He keeps it slow, thorough, propping himself up on his hands, letting his pelvis grind into your clit. Your legs curl around his hips to keep him close, to keep yourself open for him. 

He’s reaching so deep, then he ups his pace, fucking into you quick and hard, and you can do nothing but cling to him and take it. 

You feel yourself clench around him, letting out a strangled sort of cry.

“That’s it,” Aemond rasps in your ear, “that feels good doesn’t it?”

You utter a mindless “yeah,”

“Are you going to come for me?”

“I…” you think so, something’s tightening inside you. You can’t speak or help the moans that slip from your mouth.

“I wanna feel you come around my cock,” Aemond says, “please, sweetheart, please,”

The pleasure snaps and your whole body lurches, back arching, your nails digging into Aemond’s skin. He fucks you through it, panting and sighing until he stills. With a few more gentle thrusts you feel a warmth blooming inside of you. He pulls out slowly, leaning back on his haunches to admire his work.

There’s a quiet moment, when you’re both catching your breath. Your eyes meet and you smile at him. He’s sweating again.

You go back to your room to shower and dress for dinner. Helaena knocks on your door before you head down together, a pleasant ache between your legs that feels like a shameful secret.

“Aemond seemed happy about the tennis,” she says.

“Mm hmm,” you offer.

“So did you…”

“Seven hells, he’s your brother,” you whisper, feeling blood flush in your cheeks.

“Well obviously I don’t want details about him, but as your friend I want you to be happy and have good sex.”

You wish you could shrink into your shoulders. “Yes, it was good.”

She squeals with laughter and tickles under your chin like you’re a child. “I’m so proud of both of you,” she says.

You and Helaena sit together around the table, this time you’re next to Aemond. Daeron is opposite you, Aegon to his right, opposite Helaena. 

Alicent is keen to hear about the result of the tennis match. 

“It was a tough call,” Aegon says like a sports commentator, “going in, expectations were high for Mr Targaryen, and equally Mr Targaryen is a promising young player, as we all know well–”

Otto chuckles from the other side of the table. The rest of the table starts to become engrossed in Aegon’s retelling of events, even Viserys.

“But ultimately the younger player was worn down, and it was in fact Mr Targaryen who prevailed!”

“But, who actually won?” Alicent asks, completely lost until she sees the scowl on Daeron’s face.

“Who knew Aemond still had it in him?” Aegon says, raising a piece of steak on a fork to him like a toast, “after all those office hours, I thought you were officially a boring bastard.”

“You know Aemond,” Daeron says, “he’s full of surprises.”

You frown with a flicker of confusion. Aemond’s glaring at his younger brother. Aegon raises his brow, taking a deep drink from his wine.

“A man of many talents,” Helaena adds lightheartedly.

“Take this development for example,” Daeron says, nodding to you.

“Daeron,” his mother warns.

Anger rushes through you like a fist around your heart. “What’s so interesting about it?” you ask.

Daeron shrugs. “It’s just that Aemond’s usually into older women–”

There’s a scraping sound as Aemond rises from his chair. He doesn’t shout, or glare, or slam his fist on the table. He simply leaves.

Daeron’s smirking. Everyone else is looking at you, Aegon, Alicent, your own parents.

“You’re a fucking arse,” Helaena hisses across.

You’ve had dreams before, when something’s chasing you and you can’t run, like your legs are made of ice and you can’t convince them to move, to keep out of the reach of danger. That’s exactly how you feel now, like you’re living in a nightmare, pulse pounding in your chest, no way to escape.

You don’t wait to consider what Daeron might have meant. You get up from your chair and follow Aemond from the dining hall.

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