#red house spice blog

[sassygrrl32]

Exploring Traditional Chinese Food and Culture: A New Culinary Adventure-Rachel Holbert Jones-Lookout Mountain, Tennessee

As I’m still sick, I’m not going to be spending any time in the kitchen cooking. It’s kind of interesting how I stumbled into this particular food blog. I was actually searching for haunted hotels in China after listening to a Darkness Prevails podcast where a travel writer had spent time in a hotel somewhere in China that was allegedly haunted and the experience impacted her so much that she…

[superblysubpar]

<- part six | part eight -> | series masterlist

chapter summary: No more bets.

the song: Read Your Mind by Sabrina Carpenter

also for your listening pleasure: Girl Can't Help It by Journey, Open Your Heart by Madonna, U Got The Look by Prince, and The Lady in Red by Chris de Burgh

5,328 words | please see masterlist for gen warnings / brief descriptions of scars-previous head injury / SPICE/SMUT - really just some dirty talk and a teensiet tiniest start to oral (reader receiving) | my blog is 18+

Hawkins, Indiana - the past

  His hand was in yours, and then it wasn’t. 

  “Well, well, well,” a voice sneered in front of you as you blinked at the boy who just dropped your hand at the sound of it. “What do we have here, Stevie?”

  A group of boys around your age leaned against a falling apart fence just outside of the ride, eyes surveying you up and down, then looking at Steve Harrington standing next to you. The leader of the pack a face full of freckles and a grin that made your stomach unsettled when he pointed it at you and took a step forward.

  “I’m Tommy, and you,” he grinned wider, like if he showed off more teeth, he’d placate you into thinking you enjoyed his company, “Well, you must be new to Hawkins. Think I’d remember a face like yours.”

  “Knock it off Hagan,” Steve grit out of his teeth, a fist clenched at his side. 

  “I’m…I’ll…” you stuttered out at the boy named Tommy, backing away and looking at Steve as you did. “It was…I’ll see you around?”

  You scrambled away from the boys as Steve took a step towards you, but Tommy’s voice rang out, making his head turn. 

  “Does Harrington have a little girlfriend? Gonna share all the juicy details with us, Stevie?” 

  “What? No!” He answered too quickly, cheeks pink, no longer looking at you. “She’s just some stupid girl, I got stuck with her on the ferris wheel…”

  You didn’t stick around to hear more, swiping at your wet cheeks with the back of your hand. 

  Glittery green and gold smeared across it, freshly smudgable after Steve Harrington held your hand until it was over. 

A house on Cornwallis Street - Sunday

  Your hands shifted on the steering wheel, even though the car was in park. Clammy and shaking as you rubbed them on your denim shorts and took a deep breath. With your window rolled down you couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Journey coming from the backyard, the large splash that followed the shout of ‘Don’t you dare Henderson!’. Peals of laughter and the distinct smell of something grilling only added to elements encouraging you to join them. 

  But you were still sitting in your car. 

  You didn’t question it, when after the party last night, Eddie didn’t drive you home, but to the shop, dangling your keys in front of a shocked face as he proclaimed it was finally fixed.

  “But…I didn’t pay you, I thought you couldn’t…” 

  Eddie had waved you off and smiled, “I’ve been working a lot.” He dropped the keys in your lap and grinned wider, “Besides, Harringon’ll be paying me three hundred bucks tomorrow.”

  You looked down at your thighs, thinking about who’s hands had just been pushing them apart a few minutes ago as Eddie quietly probed, “Right?”

“Of course.” You nodded, telling yourself that technically you and Eddie had won the bet.

  Nobody had slept with anyone. 

  Which is what you tell yourself again as you take another deep, bravery seeking breath and step out of your car. 

  Each step on the sidewalk then up the driveway is a little easier, your chest feeling a little lighter as the laughter and music only gets louder.

  But then you see the sign. 

  The same color of the suit you have in your bag.

  The same color he told you he can’t concentrate when you wear it. 

  Bright, bold, outlining four white letters.

  SOLD. 

  You’re still looking at it when the door swings open, Robin greeting you, dripping wet from the pool and a slice of watermelon in her hand.

“Finally! I’m outnumbered, and Max is too busy canoodling with Lucas and I need more girl power!”

  She grabs your arm and pulls you into the Harrington’s foyer as a louder call of, “I told you, as soon as Lucas apologizes for what he did-“

  “And I told you, that I cannot apologize for something if I don’t know what I’m apologizing for!”

  The pair walk out of a room on one side of the foyer as they argue, Max mumbling under her breath as they exit your sights and into the den.

  “You know exactly what you did.”

  Robin rolls her eyes and points up the stairs, “This downstairs bathroom is all packed up and,” she makes quotes with her fingers around the watermelon as she recites, “ ‘It’s cleaned and if any of you idiots fuck it up, you’re dead’ , but there’s one by Steve’s room, change and come help me seek vengeance on the boys!”

  She’s gone as fast as she arrived, the silence of the house now overpowering, but at least it gives you space to take a moment to breathe and collect your thoughts.

  Steve’s moving. 

  Why didn’t he tell you?

  Your fingers glide on the wood banister as you climb the stairs, something sitting heavy in your gut from the more important question that’s gnawing at you.

  Why does it matter that he didn’t? 

  Once you find the bathroom, your fingers tug on red nylon and strings. The suit you rummaged around for in your drawer this morning pointing out the glaringly obvious answer. It matters he didn’t tell you because-

  It was a good suit, that was the only reason why it was picked for today.

  Not because of where you were wearing it.

  Not because of the boy who lived there. 

  Because he definitely still does live there, at least for the time being.

  It’s easy to spot his room when you exit the bathroom, bare feet padding across hard woods as you tug the hem of your white tshirt over your hips a little lower. Worried you shouldn’t be walking around the house so uncovered despite the fact that you’re about to be even more so outside in the pool, when you catch your reflection in the mirror above his dresser. 

  The room is in shambles, half packed you assume. Boxes open, and only half filled, litter the floor, the white plaid wallpapered walls bare, whatever hung on the nails left behind now packed away. Your fingers linger on the top of the dresser, thumb catching on his watch, a Polaroid of him and Robin, the worn brown leather of his wallet. A tight squeeze pulls at something in your chest when the slip of paper with the name ‘Brit’ and a heart shifts beneath it. 

  You can’t help but wonder if he called that number that night like he said he would. 

  Wonder if he took her out to a movie, held her hand, let everyone know that Steve Harrington was on a date with her.

  Your bag drops on his bed that’s unmade with sheets that match the walls as you wonder if she was here too. As you wonder how many other girls have been in this room, this bed. 

  A loud shout outside, just below his window makes you jump, pulling you out of the spiral of doubt you’ve fallen into and down the stairs. 

  The cream carpet is plush beneath your bare feet, the framed photos are gone, the desk as well, so nothing stands between you and the sliding glass doors out to the pool.

  It’s a different view than the last time you were here. The bright turquoise littered with even brighter inflatables and swimsuits. It’s warm, it’s light, it’s loud, as bodies splash in it and compete with the radio playing top hits for the loudest thing. Eddie’s shaking his curls out back and forth all over Robin who’s shrieking and running past him. 

  The thought of stepping outside and arriving late has you turning into the kitchen, searching for something your hands can fiddle with before joining the party. 

  Which is how Steve Harrington’s lungs finally give out, and he dies. 

  He knows he’s not actually dying, but he’s sure that the process has to feel eerily similar to this.

  He rounded the corner to find his fridge door opened, the glow of the interior light silhouetting around your curves hidden under a white shirt making his breath stutter in his chest. And as you bend at the waist, red fabric cut high and only climbing higher, reveals the perfect swell of your ass and his lungs fail to function, like one’s collapsing because he’s been shot, or he’s taking on water and they don’t know to expel the air anymore. 

  “Jesus Christ.”

  It slips out of him much like the yelp the words startle out of you, the shoot up of your body involuntary, causing your head to smack into the top of the fridge and a litany of curses to tumble out of your lips. 

  Steve rushes over as you hold your head and spin, blinking and looking dizzy.

  “Shit, shit, sorry.” He’s across the room in seconds, hands cupping your cheeks and tilting you gently while his eyes focus on your forehead, inspecting. He frowns and moves to the left slightly, towards the sink,  though he leaves one of his hands in contact with your skin. 

  The furrow of his brow deepens as he dampens a towel and you try to breathe out of your nose and in with your mouth so you don’t focus on how his normal smell is stronger with his shirt off and mixed with sunscreen and chlorine that clings to his skin. Skin that shines with a sheen from each, that’s somehow not gross, but tantalizing. So much of that skin on display revealing more freckles than you can fathom counting. Skin that looks more tan from the dark chest hair curled against it or the swim trunks that sit low on his hips. 

  Steve looks at you with raised eyebrows and you realize he’s asked a question and you absolutely didn’t hear it. 

  “Um,” you swallow, your tongue taking up too much room in your mouth, “Wh-what?”

  Steve’s lips twitch as he stands fully in front of you again, damp cloth raised as he whispers, “Something distracting you, honey?”

  Your throat has something stuck in it, and no amount of clearing it seems to fix the problem. You focus on the freckle just to the left of his lips instead of his smug eyes as you admit, “Can’t concentrate when you wear that color.”

  The reward of his low laugh and smile has you wondering if someone hand sculpted his lips and cupid’s bow. 

  “I’ll be sure to wear it every chance I get just to torture you then,” he murmurs while fingers adjust your chin into the light. Your back rests against the center island, legs sandwiched between his spread ones so he can raise the cloth to your skin, apologizing with his eyes as he tacks on, “Only fair, since you woke up and decided evil today.”

  The damp material of his swim trunks sends a shiver up your spine when it hits your thighs, and your hands grab his waist in a wince when the cloth makes contact with your still fairly fresh head wound. You’re in a staring contest with a gold chain around his neck as you fib, “This is the only swimsuit I own. Just happens to be red.”

  Steve finishes with your forehead, but two fingers curl under your chin and lift so you have to look at him as he speaks through a smirk.

  “You’re pretty cute when you lie.”

  “Come on Steve,” you whisper, fingers curling into his hips without thought, “You’re better than cheesy lines and rookie moves like this. Besides, the bet’s over. We can go back to hating each other now.”

  He shakes his head, nose bumping yours as he does and he exhales, “Never hated you.”

  Your swallow is loud as he leans closer, one hand on your hip and fingers playing with the so to speak fire of the strings holding your suit together as you offer, “Despised?”

  Another shake of his head, another step closer so your lower halves are pressed together and your eyelashes are fluttering. Your head falls back with a gasp as his mouth trails along your jaw, hot breath and wet lips against it as you stutter out, “De-detest?”

  He responds into your skin, just below your ear, something that sounds like the word, “Never.”

  His name leaves you breathlessly as his tongue lightly licks down the side of your neck, lips following in a delicate brush. 

  “Steve-”

  He hums into your collar, nose dragging around the curve of it while your hands grip his sides. “Stop saying my name like that honey, or I’m gonna get down on my knees and make you say it much,” he nips at your earlobe, “Much, louder.”

  The space between your legs throbs, thighs push even tighter together at the thought of Steve’s mouth there. 

  “Steve,” you scold, cheeks warm, body even more so in all the places it touches his. 

  “Baby,” he groans, nose knocking your cheek, “What did I just say?”

  He starts to lower himself, hands drifting so too, on the outside of your thighs. Brushing bare skin and aching to push it further, cup your ass and roll your hips against his. Especially when your fingers hold his jaw in place so he has to look at you. Only slightly distracted by how kissable your lips are as they say, “You’re moving.”

  Steve shakes his head no and you laugh again and he wonders how many more times he can make that sound come out of you. 

  “Harrington, there’s literally a sold sign in your front yard.”

  He leans in closer, unable to resist the chance to taste your lips again, to feel their lingering sting against them all day. He’s got this insane thought that he wishes you were wearing lipstick, so it could be smeared against him, marking up his mouth and neck, shit, even his dick, so everyone knows he’s yours, it’s yours.  

  “You worried I’m gonna be too far away?” He somehow manages to ask through the fog of images of your lips surrounding his cock, big eyes blinking at him as you-

  “I’m actually worried it isn’t far enough,” you swallow around the tight feeling in your chest.

  His forehead knocks yours, hands squeeze your waist and then climb higher on your curves as he tsks, “Even cuter. You gotta quit lying baby.” But he relents some of the upperhand, the thought of you being worried about him leaving making him admit, “I’m crashing at Robin’s for a bit. And we’re trying to save up for a place together.”

  “Oh,” you nod, distracted by the way his nose traces the bridge of yours, how his eyelashes flutter and the freckles on his cheeks stand out more from a morning in the sun as he does. “Th-that’s good.”

  “Yeah?” The corner of his lips rising in a smile making them brush yours. 

  “Mhm,” you hum, “So you can take Brit on that date still.”

  “Who?” He blinks, cheeks turning pink as your fingers scrape up his stomach and through his chest hair. 

  “Brit,” your eyebrows raise, “Smells like peaches, and giggles and dots her eyes with hearts? The picture perfect girl to take out around town and proudly hold hands with?”

  “Again,” Steve leans the few centimeters closer, whispering against your lips, “Who?”

  You push at his chest, as much as it pains you to do so, needing the distance from the intoxicating mouth that smells like mint and lemonade. But

Steve remains strong in his position, fingers curl around your ear and hold your neck in place gently as he speaks like each word might spook you into running.

  “I’m staying in Hawkins. I have no idea who you’re talking about. The bet is over. Can you stop being so stubborn and let me kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since we were twelve?”

  Your heart rumbles low and slow, like thunder rolling in, it cracks in your chest like lightening hit it. Every ounce of your body is buzzing, like the strike tore your body in two. One part that can’t believe you’re hearing him say it and another that wants to run even though you know it doesn’t strike the same place twice. The fear of being caught in the storm with no way out has you stalling. 

  “Ask me nicely.”

  Steve laughs, and you wonder how you never noticed how much you like making that sound bubble out of him. 

  Or how much you like the way he licks his lips before he says something important. 

  “Please,” he murmurs against your mouth, “Can I kiss you?”

  Your lips part the same time a shriek calls from the den, “Steve! The food is burning!”

  He curses under his breath, hand grabbing yours as he pulls you through the kitchen and into the den. 

  His frown only grows as the smell of burning food does when the two of you exit the sliding door. He tugs you with him across the warm pavement of the patio, the cool summer breeze has goosebumps arriving on your legs as he shouts at the curly haired boy fanning a smoking grill.

“Henderson! You had one fucking job, man! These aren’t just burning they’re-“

  “Scorched,” Lucas supplies around a cough, smacking the air with his hat. 

  “Torched,” Mike pipes up, squinting and pinching his nose closed.

  “Dead,” El delivers morosely.

  Will snorts and covers his mouth and Max mutters under her breath, “Imbeciles.” 

  But then she’s smiling at you.

  Then they’re all smiling at you, even Eddie and Robin who stand just beyond them, staring at Steve and yours intertwined hands. 

  The attention on it makes your hand feel too heavy in his and you go to slip it out, but Steve only squeezes it tighter, waving his other at them, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer. Now get lost, or I’m not making more and you can eat these disgusting things.”

  The “kids” take off and Steve turns to you, thumb swiping over the back of your hand, cheeks pink and swallowing loudly. “Um, about my really nicely asked question that was rudely-“

  “Yes.”

  The just as interrupted response stuns him as much as it does you. But when he smiles, and takes your cheeks in both of his hands, and leans in slowly, you’re sure the answer was the right one, the storm clouds dissipate, the threat of another crack gone. 

  This kiss, is like rain. 

  The good kind of rain. Slow. Steady. Steve’s lips capture yours sure, calmly, breathing out just as the pair of his mold around your top one. He holds them through an exhale against your cheek as your hands fall to his chest naturally. You can feel the thud of his heart beneath your palm as his mouth parts to do it again, deeper, stronger. Each beat against your skin the rain hitting a window until it’s so natural, so steady, it’s a simple background noise. 

  It’s only when loud whoops and whistles break the calm that you hear yours in your ears and feel his heart again, the calm disrupted. Your cheeks warm beneath his palms as he kisses you again, a chaste and over too quick peck around a smile. 

  That pesky thing is still stuck in your throat, suddenly unsure how limbs and words and human things work anymore. You stumble a step back and trip on a pool noodle when your stomach flutters with a swarm of butterflies intent on trying to escape. He catches your waist before you fall as you gesture to the water, “Alright, well, that pool’s not gonna swim in itself.”

  Steve smiles, but he narrows his eyes, squeezing at the outside of your thighs, “Honey, I thought we were done being mean to each other.”

  Your eyes blink at him, confused, butterflies constructing a roller-coaster in your stomach now as well, as you ask, “How is me swimming being mean?”

  “Kissing me like that then parading around in a little red bikini?” He swallows as his fingers play with the strings of said suit, whispering, “Mean. Incorrigible, baby.”

  This feels surreal, his hands on you, calling you baby while your friends are only a few feet away and absolutely watching. Even more so when you whisper, “Big brain word.”

  Steve taps your chin, lifting it as he asks, “What’s my prize?”

  Looking into Steve’s, Buttercup’s description of Westley’s eyes being like the sea after a storm can’t help but float through your mind. But Steve’s are a lot more like the forest after one. Wet and darkened earth soaking up all it was just given, richer in color and waiting to be explored. 

  “What do you want?” 

  Steve grins, his mouth parts, but then you’re both being drenched with water, two buckets dumped over your heads as you shout in protest against the cold. 

  Robin and Max yell something about the fire in the kitchen being too hot and they needed to put it out as they run away from you both with laughter. 

  You peel off the white shirt that clings to your body now as you mumble something about payback. Steve groans at the reveal of your body in only the suit. It’s easy to look over your shoulder as you walk away from him and ask, “Tell me later?”

  Even easier to shove a grinning Eddie towards the pool as you walk past and mumble, “Shut up.”

  He grips at your shoulder as he flails, pulling you in with him, your double splash drowning out your shriek and the beginning of Madonna’s Open Your Heart booming out of the stereo. 

  When you resurface, swiping water from your eyes and laughing, you turn to find Steve again and aren’t surprised when he’s already looking at you. Your arms rest on the ledge when you swim up to the side and mock his voice, calling up to him.

  “Take a picture, it’ll last longer!”

  He sticks his tongue out at you as you laugh and swim away, but he can’t help but wonder where he packed his Polaroid, and if he can get you alone long enough to snap several his eyes only photos. 

  He’s still thinking it, later, as the sun inches closer to the other side of the sky, and you’re relaxed on a lounger next to Robin. 

Eyes hidden from him behind sunglasses, hands resting on your stomach, brushing back and forth over your skin as you roll your neck. 

  Prince’s U Got The Look fills the now much quieter backyard, the kids all having disappeared under the excuse of getting movie snacks and a video rental from Keith an hour ago. Robin’s voice interrupts the lyrics with, “How much you wanna bet they’re at the arcade and they aren’t coming back with the snacks?”

  You groan and sit up, “No more bets. But,” a sigh leaves you, “Yeah. I’ll go order a pizza? Steve���s got a billion contraband rental’s downstairs too. I’m sure there’s something halfway decent in there.”

  “Ha-ha,” he says dryly, watching you stretch has him sinking lower in the pool so only his eyes show. He squeezes them shut when your top slips just a smidge higher as your arms raise, the curve of each breast peeking out from the bottom and giving him a heart attack. 

  He’s certain that’s exactly what’s happening when he opens them to find you slipping your white shirt on. Only it’s not your white shirt.

  It’s his.

  Steve watches the collar linger on your nose, then slip over your chin as you smile at him and hook your thumb over your shoulder, “I’m - phone…pizza.” Stumbling over your words and shuffling towards the house quickly. 

  He waits exactly sixty seconds before he’s swimming towards the ladder and climbing out. Eddie’s voice taunts from the tube he’s floating in, with his arms behind his head, even with closed eyes he looks smug, “And where are you going?”

  “To…help. With the calling for pizza.” He towels off quickly, Robin snorts and Eddie makes a booing sound. 

  Robin calls from her lounger, “Don’t say we never did anything for you, Dingus!”

  Steve slides the glass door on their snickering, the house quiet and much cooler than the Summer outside. He glances in the kitchen, the hallway, searching for you, when he hears a creak upstairs. 

  He finds you in his room, in his shirt still, sunglasses pushed onto the top of your head as you sift through a bag and pull out a pair of denim shorts.

  “Hi,” he whispers, when you look up at him.

  “Hey,” you smile, voice quiet too, “Why are we whispering?”

  “I-“ he starts quiet and clears his throat, returning to a normal volume, “I don’t know. Guess I thought if I spoke too loud I might wake up from this great dream.”

  The grin spreads on your lips and you shake your head, “Wow. That’s bad, even for you, Steve.”

  He takes a few steps towards you as you continue to shake your head with a smile, only stopping when he asks, “Say my name again? Please?”

  Steve takes the shorts from your hands, dropping them on the ground as you murmur, gently, “Steve.”

  His tongue darts over his bottom lip before he says, “Can I tell you what I want for a prize now?”

  You’re only able to manage a small, “Mhm,” between pressed together lips as your hands sweat and your stomach burns, and your chest constricts while his fingers toy with the strings of your swimsuit bottoms. 

  He kisses you, slowly, licking out over the seam of your lips until you open for him. His hands guide you backwards gently until he’s climbing over your body on his bed and Prince’s voice fades into Chris de Burgh’s. 

  His body presses against yours, weight heavy and making your eyelids flutter as his hand cups your cheek, then traces your shoulder, the curve of your breast down to your hip. Your stomach burns with want, fingers dig into his hair as he releases your lips and kisses your chin, your chest through his shirt. He only travels lower, pushing it up and kissing your stomach, along the seam of your suit. Your legs rise on either side of his head, fingers leaving his hair to curl into his sheets that surround you and fill the space with a cedar and mint haze. 

  “St-steve,” you hiccup as he nips at the inside of your thigh. 

  He moans, palms pressing you open wider, mouth leaving a wet and hot trail of kisses and breaths up each leg. This wasn’t the plan, he wanted to take it slow, but he can’t help it anymore. He speaks into your stomach, kissing your skin between every few words. 

  “Baby, please, can I taste you?” His fingers tug on the strings of your suit and his vision blurs when you make a sound that sounds like a whine and roll your hips, searching. He’s gone fully blind as you tug on his hair again, drunk off of you without a single taste. 

  “Yeah? Gonna let me put my mouth on you?” He noses at your cunt through the suit, dragging it up against the fabric, babbling anything that comes to his mind without a filter. “That what you want, honey? To come all over my tongue?”

  Your palms press to the bed as you sit up, fingers tugging at the mess of brown waves between your thighs when his tongue licks over your suit.

  Your mouth parts in a gasp, eyes fluttering from the barely there friction, the minimal release of the tension you’ve felt since the kitchen downstairs hours ago. 

  Steve looks up at the sound and nearly comes in his shorts, the image of your dazed eyes and pouting lips, the heave of your chest under his shirt having him really thinking about where his camera is again. 

  “Oh,” his voice falls into a teasing lilt, playing with his food before he eats it, “Look at you. You’re already fucked dumb and I haven’t done a thing.”

  Your body is engulfed in flames at the taunting words, somehow turned on and irritated in the same sentence.

  A Steve Harrington special skill, you think. 

  He curses the words almost immediately after they leave him, thinking he’s pushed it too far too fast but then you’re saying his name like that again, saying the word please so softly, so sincerely, his vision goes white and scratchy like the tape of all of his abilities to think clearly was just ejected from his brain. 

  Steve sits up with a groan, backing away from the bed with the shake of his head. 

  “You’re trouble,” he rasps, breathing heavily from across the room, back against his dresser.

  “What’s wrong?” The mood shift jarring and making your legs close, your arms cross over your chest in a hug, wondering what you did.

  “This,” he says then immediately waves his hands, “No, not like that! I-“ he cuts himself off with another groan, a hand swipes through his hair only making it messier. You clench around nothing at the wild hair, the pink cheeks, the dark chest hair and tan skin as he paces.

  “I wanna-“ he starts.

  “Harrington! Quit making out up there and bring down some of what I gave you! I’m tapped and the pizza guy’s here.”

  Steve curses and he spins on his dresser, grabbing his wallet.

  His wallet. 

  Bring down some of what I gave you.

  His shoulders hunch as he swears again, “Those…brats. I swear to god I’m gonna kill them.”

  He spins to find you yanking your shorts on, muttering, “I cannot believe I fucking fell for this.”

  “Fell for…what are you talking about?” Steve steps closer and you back up quickly, waving your hand at him.

  “Save it.” 

  He watches you storm out of the room, confused, and then looks down at the wallet and quickly rushes out after you, “No, no, no, honey it’s not-“

  “Don’t,” you spin on the stairs, voice icy, “Call me honey.”

  Steve takes another step down, pleading with his eyes as Eddie, Robin, and a stranger stand in the foyer, blinking up at the two of you. “Eddie didn’t give me money for that. He…” his hand swipes through his hair again, tongue over his lip as he lowers his voice, “Can we please go somewhere else to talk about this?”

  Your arms cross and Steve sighs.

  “He gave me money…for a different bet. Sort of bet. Bet is a bad word for it.”

  Something rumbles in your chest once more, though no storm was forecasted, you should have known there was bound to be more. 

  Steve’s lips pout as he waves his hand while explaining in a ramble, “After the bet started, I told them how much I actually liked you. And they agreed to help me. And if I got you to actually give me a chance, with their help of course, Eddie’d pay for a real date and Robin would cover our shifts when we went.”

  The explanation should be sweet, but all you can focus on is that Steve didn’t just have the guts to tell you right away. That your friends all helped manipulate you and lied. You start to wonder if the power even went out, if Eddie knew Steve would be at that party, if Robin put In Your Eyes on on purpose, the diner, your car being busted - all of it. 

  What was real between you and Steve, and what was made with movie magic? 

  The storm cracks in your chest, letting the first drops fall down your cheeks. 

  “I have to get out of here.”

  The calls of your name and his steps behind you on the stairs ignored as your vision blurs. 

  Leaving a boy standing in a yard on Cornwallis street while you disappear without your shoes again. 

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[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

wrapped in red.

‣ pairing — ari levinson x f!reader

‣ contents — oneshot, fluff, tiny bits of angst if you squint really hard, xmas/holiday themed, making new traditions, strangers to friends to lovers, reader is not physically described but is very asian-coded

‣ synopsis — all he wanted was some takeout, yours was the only restaurant still open on christmas eve, and ari gets so much more than he bargained for.

‣ word count — 4.1k

‣ notes — not expecting a lot of excitement for this one tbh, but I was very excited to write it. this is for my fellow asian girlies out there and everyone else who’s looking for some good old fashioned christmas fluff <3

✩ read on ao3 ✩ janie’s masterlist ✩ library blog

It took him a total of eighteen minutes to decide to leave the house. 

The sky was pitch black it was so late, and he knew trying to find a place open this late was a long shot, but his fridge was empty save for half a stick of butter and a jar of pickles. He really didn’t think he could fast for a whole other day, nor did he think himself talented enough in the culinary arts to slap together anything edible out of those two ingredients. 

So Ari drove around the city until he found a place with its lights still on, the open sign hanging askew on the door, and was relieved to see it was a Chinese restaurant. Who didn’t like Chinese food? 

He thought he knew what to expect when he pulled up to the Lantern House. He could see through the storefront window walls painted dark crimson, brightened up just a touch by several umbrella chandeliers. 

Once inside, he saw watercolour paintings of lotus flowers and mandarin ducks and leather dining booths separated by large wooden screens. Carefully-folded cloth napkins were resting on top of plates made of fine china, chopsticks and soup spoons stacked in plastic containers at each booth, and lazy Susans spinning around porcelain tea sets and bottles of chilli crisp, soy sauce, and sesame oil. 

There was a lucky cat perched on the corner of the hostess’s stand, waving at him mechanically as he picked up a menu from the neatly stacked pile. He looked around for the hostess, or any wait staff, but there was nobody else here. He heard someone rummaging around in the kitchen, could see the figure of someone hunched over the stove through the open door. 

Ari perused the menu quickly, glancing up and down the laminated pages, only to realize this wasn’t the kind of Chinese food establishment he was used to. 

Rather than the usual combination fried rice, orange chicken, and beef with broccoli, he was met with menu items like Hainanese chicken and rice, egg bean curd and fried gluten served in a sizzling hot pot, snow pea tips and goji berries in garlic sauce, chilli fried turnip cakes, and—was he reading that right?—blood jello congee. 

What the hell was congee? 

Or blood jello, for that matter? 

“I know,” a voice said all of a sudden, following by the rhythmic tapping of a pen against the edge of a notepad. “Lots’a weird stuff in there, huh?” 

“Uh—” Ari began, not knowing what to say without uttering something inadvertently offensive, halting immediately when he looked up to see you leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. 

His cheeks grew warm for some reason. Maybe because he’d been half-expecting a woman donning a red qipáo with gold threading, her hair twisted up into a bun. Instead, you stood there staring back at him in a black t-shirt and jeans, your midsection covered by a plain red apron, smirking as if you could read his stupid mind. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly and broke eye contact, mentally chiding himself that he should know better. He was no stranger to being stereotyped either, after all. God, he should just order something quick and just high tail it out of here before he embarrasses himself further. 

But then you laughed good-naturedly, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to help him flip to the next page. You smelled like salt and spice and orange blossoms as you pressed yourself to his side, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, peering down at the pages while he stared at the top of your head in wide-eyed bewilderment. 

“It’s not all weird, I promise,” you said, your voice tinged with amusement. “Any food allergies, sir?” 

“No,” he managed to say once he found his voice, “but I like to keep kosher.” 

“Ah, so shrimp and pork are out of the question then,” you nodded, not missing a beat, and he almost wanted to kick himself for not correcting you with his name instead. Then you looked up with an almost mischievous grin and a peculiar glint in your eye, and Ari felt his grip on the menu slacken just a bit. “You’ll need to trust me, stranger.” 

Ari considered this for a moment. He was already here, and he likely wouldn’t find another place that was still open, so he decided that yes, he would. He was nodding before the thought had even finished forming in his head. 

“How do you feel about grouper?” You asked and he blinked a few times before shrugging, not really feeling any way about it one or the other. You then proceeded to excitedly go through the menu items with him, pointing out the specials but also ones that you thought wouldn’t be too adventurous for a first-timer. 

You promised to be right back, giving him one last smile before disappearing back into the kitchen. Ari shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing around the restaurant before sliding into a nearby empty booth while he waited for his order of salt and pepper fried grouper and Cantonese-style beef chǎo miàn, all of which came with a free hot and sour soup. 

The place was quiet. Strange for any regular Tuesday night, maybe, but he suppose it wasn’t all that strange for Christmas Eve.

Most people were at home with their loved ones, sitting by warm fires and festively-decorated trees, eagerly awaiting the time for opening presents and dipping carefully-iced sugar cookies into steaming mugs of hot chocolate. 

Feasts of their own had been prepared as they welcomed visitors of all kinds, some they saw often and others they hadn’t seen in a while, not many deciding to brave the cold and snow in search for takeout. 

Except him, evidently. Well, not just him. 

Because the door suddenly opened, triggering the chime of your security system, revealing a middle aged man and two small children brushing freshly fallen snow off each other’s shoulders. 

“Excuse me,” the man called out hesitantly in an accent Ari couldn’t quite place. “You are open, yes?” 

“Yes, we are!” Came your muffled reply from the kitchen, and a few seconds later you came running out with your notepad and pen. You rushed past his table, doing a double take before asking if it was okay if his order took a few minutes longer. Ari agreed amicably, it’s not like he had anywhere else to be. 

He watched as you quickly ushered the family inside, seating them in a booth by the window so the children could watch the snow and twinkling lights outside. Ari tried to mind his own business as you poured them steamed hot cups of tea—an oolong blend that he would later learn was a favourite of yours, named after the iron goddess of mercy—and took their orders while they told you of their holiday plights. 

The man’s wife and the children’s mother was unfortunately stranded in another part of the country due to the snow. She wouldn’t be able to get a train ride home until Christmas night, and as a result they had to postpone their family dinner. Thank goodness you were still open, because he couldn’t cook to save his life! 

Ari couldn’t help but smile when you handed the kids some festive red envelopes to lift their spirits, each containing a chocolate coin wrapped in shiny gold foil. 

And as the night wore on, only a handful more customers passed through the doors. With each visitor, Ari felt the world shift. 

You waved goodbye to the small family as they piled into their car parked just outside the restaurant, not turning away until they were out of the parking lot and out of sight. 

You smiled and listened attentively to the stores of a lonely older gentleman, who had lost his wife just months prior, and was spending the holidays alone for the first time in fifty years.

You cooed at a fussy toddler balanced against the hip of a frazzled-looking young woman who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, all the while packaging up their leftovers with practiced ease. 

They all thanked you with smiles, some clutching your hand with shining eyes before they left, wishing you a merry Christmas and blessing your heart, as if trying to convey something else they couldn’t quite voice. 

Ah, Ari thought as he glanced down at his table, noting the sign in your window that announced you would also be open on Christmas Day. 

Even though most of the world was effectively on pause, you couldn’t close your doors yet. Not when there were people out there, no matter how few and far in between, who needed this place, who needed this small beacon of light on one of the darkest and coldest nights of the year. 

For people like you and him who, for any number of reasons, weren’t celebrating today, or for whom it was just any other day, and who came in search of a warm meal when they had no one or nothing else. 

Ari stayed after all, too caught up in the spirit of the season even though he’d never paid much attention in previous years. His earlier awkwardness and apprehension was quickly forgotten when you arrived with his order, smiling kindly when he didn’t move to leave and brought him a cup of tea, and he ate every last steaming morsel, slurped up every last noodle, and gulped down every last drop of broth. 

Only when his takeout containers were clean and empty and his stomach was full did he actually stop and look up, and you were watching him with this proud little grin. He was helpless but to return the gesture. 

“What’s your name, stranger?” You asked him before he went home, handing him the check on a small tray with a few mints in shiny red and gold wrappers. 

“Levinson,” he said, so used to reciting his last name first. He quickly corrected himself, “Ari.” 

“Okay then, Levinson,” you chuckled, your fingertips brushing against his open palm as you gave him his change. Then you looked at him with the softest smile, your eyes genuine, “Drive safe out there, okay?” 

He nodded politely, popping a mint into his mouth even though he usually never partook. He would only realize later that it was out of instinct, quickly trying to stop his heart’s frantic escape. The minute they hit his tongue, however, he found that they were candies. 

The entire drive home was milky and strawberry sweet, even if it ended with him slumped over with his forehead resting against the steering wheel when he remembered he hadn’t asked for your name in return. 

And so it took him a few more days to decide to return, right before the new year, with only half the reason being the amazing food. The restaurant was much busier this time, but you still brightened visibly when he walked through the door. 

“Levinson, Ari!” You shouted over the noise of conversation, over the hustle and bustle of your busy staff, all of whom turned to look in his direction, “you made it back!” 

You were once again his server, flitting between tables before stopping at his, and he asked hesitantly why you didn’t wear a name tag. You blinked slowly at him a few times, before realizing with a surprised laugh that he didn’t know what to call you. You said it to him while beaming, Ari’s own cheeks almost flaming in a way he hadn’t experienced since his youth, nodding when he repeated it back to you in a quiet voice. 

He made sure you didn’t see him pull out his phone, updating the entry for the restaurant’s number in his contacts. 

How do you feel about grouper?

Without context, it was a strange question to fall in love to. 

Because, looking back, Ari thinks he might have begun that sweet yet treacherous descent from that moment on. 

It took him another six months before he managed to try everything on the menu, after you made substitutes for everything specifically so he could try them. Pork was switched out for chicken or beef, shellfish set aside and fish tossed into the mix in its place, even though they changed the flavour of the original dish. 

“I hope you know what a big deal this is for me,” you’d joke, playfully shaking your head and rolling your eyes at him. But Ari always clocked the way you watched him with bated breath as he tried them, your eyes wide and hopeful without even realizing. He would later wish he would’ve told you that yes, he did know. Did you know how grateful he was? 

Instead, he’d stare blankly at you as he chewed, only faltering and grinning when you groaned in frustration and impatience, practically stomping your feet as you whined, “Just tell me what you think already!” 

And he would cave. Maybe not everything was to his liking, he admitted, but enough of it was that it kept him coming back. 

Among other things. 

It wasn’t long after that that he spontaneously asked you to join him late one night. He was up at odd hours of the night, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to swing by to pick up his order only minutes before closing. You began insisting he could eat there while you cleaned up, and while he watched you mopping the floors and closing the till, he glanced down at his meal and couldn’t help but wonder if you’d eaten. 

It would be nice, he thought, if you sat down with him for a change. When he asked, his heart stuttering at the way you paused and looked so taken aback. When was the last time someone looked after you instead of the other way around? 

There was no one else in the restaurant, the sign on the door already flipped over to say you were closed, and Ari, with all the boldness he could muster, gestured to the opposite side of his booth in invitation. 

You glanced at him a little hesitantly, before looking away and smoothing a hand over your slightly disheveled hair and glancing quickly down at your plain yet sensible attire. With a bit of coaxing, though, you finally put aside your mop and decided to sit across from him after all. 

And if he’d felt the world shift that first night, this was the night he felt it flip completely upside down. 

Ari wished he didn’t have a penchant for leaving things unsaid, that he would have told you what he’d really thought then. You didn’t ever need to be self-conscious; he’d thought you beautiful since the moment you met, and this was how he always wanted to see you. And with each visit, it was just as thrilling to learn you were as beautiful on the inside. 

Instead of the usual cups of tea, you brought out a bottle of chilled plum wine and a set of beautiful glasses that looked like they were saved for special occasions. You giggled when he pointed it out, whispering even though no one else was around that you’d bought it for dirt cheap at a flea market. 

Ari smiled wide then, and soon all decorum between restaurant owner and customer was forgotten as he told you, through a mouthful of ground chicken and chives and a tangy black vinegar dipping sauce, “If I could only have one food for the rest of my life, it would be these fuckin’ dumplings.” 

“Ari,” you chided, using your chopsticks to pick up a rice noodle roll stir fried in a fragrant satay sauce. He thought that it was the first time you’d said his first name, and that it might have been the best sound he’d ever heard. That was until you laughed, the musical little sound making his heart leap. 

And even though he used to joke to his colleagues about how useless of a day Christmas was for him, even though he always used to say it was just another day, it seemed that even he wasn’t exempt from the makings of holiday traditions. 

Because for years after, even when it wasn’t Christmas, you and Ari would sit  together sharing meals in an empty restaurant late into the night. He got to know your regulars just as much as you—

Silas and his boys, the family who had come into the Lantern House the same Christmas he did and began making their own traditions of having family dinner here every now and then. 

Mr. Han, who lives just across the street and always brings home an order of shāomài as an offering for his late wife. 

Traci with an ‘I’, a college student and single mom, whose little girl loved your restaurant’s freshly steamed mǎ lā gāo. 

—and you’d tell him that it reminds you of when you were a kid, when your neighbours all knew each other and took the time to catch up over steamed sticky rice dumplings and fried dough sticks wrapped in rice noodles. 

And when Christmas Eve did come around, Ari would show up at your door like clockwork. Your staff would exchange knowing smiles behind your back, shooing you towards his table despite your protests of how busy it was, more than happy to take on the work in your stead for a change before heading home to their own families. 

So, you would warm him up with a cup of tiěguānyīn and a kiss on the cheek. You would welcome him with open arms, literally, holding him close enough to let his heart beat right next to yours for just a few seconds, but it was enough. More than enough. 

You would point to pictures pinned against the walls of your beloved restaurant, the ones that told your own story in a series of snapshots—tales of parents who were enjoying retirement as they zipped all around the world and sent you endless flurries of postcards, of lifelong friends who you either see often or hardly ever see anymore because life just gets so preoccupying, of the regulars who continued to be drawn in by the promise of hot meals and a warm heart. 

Ari’s eyes would then land on one photograph in particular, swallowing hard to see his own blue eyes staring back at him from your wall, his smile easy and bright despite his normally serious disposition. It was taken on your third Christmas together, and you were leaning close to him in the shot, tucked right against his side just like that very first meeting. 

He wanted you to give him permission, to tell him that his arm always had a place around you so long as he wanted it. And he wanted it all the time, he realized. 

But Ari was never on leave for long. 

The first time he told you about his job, minus all the unnecessary details that were incredibly classified, you did your best to send him off with a smile and well wishes. His work was important and he helped people, and he knew you would never consider asking him not to do it, even if it was rife with danger and uncertainty, even if he could see the part of you that worried he might never come back. 

As the years went on, with each goodbye, you stared up at him as you pulled away from a hug, as if trying to memorize the lines and edges of his face, before tugging him back into embraces that always felt like they might be the last. 

“How will I ever know if something happens to you out there?” You would say, trying to keep your voice light and smiling wryly but looking like your heart was catching in your throat. 

“Aw, you worried about me?” He would joke, even though he knew he looked just as stricken and scared, wanting to say something else altogether. 

As far as the world knew, you and him were nothing to each other. But to him, this was it. He didn’t care what, if anything, ever came of it, or whether it would remain just like this forever. This was all he ever dared to hope for. 

He wanted this to be the only place he ever came home to. 

He wanted to be the one to greet you with a kiss hello, smile as he tasted the sweet mango pudding on your lips. 

He wanted to be the one to wish you sweet dreams with a kiss goodnight, then grumble about the way his mouth tingled with the leftover spice from whatever you had for dinner. 

He wanted so desperately to be the one with the intimate knowledge of how you kissed first thing in the mornings. 

And each time you bade him goodbye, he swore you were breaking off a piece of yourself to tuck into his carry-on. 

Because no matter how far or how long he went, you never really left him. You flooded his memories the same way the smell of winter melon and pork bone soup flooded his nostrils as it boiled away on your stovetop, right from the moment he stepped inside your kitchen. 

“Just because you abstain doesn’t mean I have to,” you’d tease before slurping noisily from your spoon and making obnoxious yummy noises.

You stayed with him the same way the sound of sliced rice cakes sizzling enticingly on oil-covered frying pans never left him until he’s had a bite. You tried teaching him how to make them one time, to less than desirable results. 

“No, I swear it’s good!” You looked at him with wide eyes as you chewed. He would glance back at you, unimpressed. 

“They’re not even fully cooked,” he’d say, but his cheeks were warm as he watched you finish them all. 

And even though you weren’t with him, the thought of you still made him smile the same way he’s seen you grin to yourself, satisfied, after enjoying a mouthful of savoury and spicy dándán noodles. 

“Obviously, I have to try them before I can serve them!” You mumbled through grease-covered lips. “It’s called quality control, Ari.”

“Obviously,” Ari agreed facetiously with a slight roll of his eyes, but the edges of his mouth always quirked up into a half-smile. “You bottomless pit.”

And when his plane finally lands, hours after the clock as struck midnight and signalled the arrival of another Christmas Day, his car makes the familiar turns and detours down the streets. He’s almost breathless when he arrives in a vacant parking lot, and the lights to his very own personal lighthouse are still on. 

The doors open, greeting him with the sharp smoky scent of incense permeating the walls and tablecloths. You’ve told him on numerous occasions that you only light them now out of habit more than anything else, but you still promised to light one for him every now and then. 

“A little prayer won’t hurt, will it?” You’d reasoned with a sheepish smile the very first time you lit one in front of him. “Just in case there is some deity out there actually listening, I need them to know you need protecting.” 

Ari is going to tell you tonight, the very first chance he gets, that he knew he loved you then. 

And with an offering of your now cold pan-fried dumplings placed onto the table next to the burning incense, he’s certain that all the gods are probably scrambling to hear your prayers for just a taste. Or maybe you thought the smell of his favourite food and the lights from the Lantern House in the otherwise moonless night would help guide him back. 

Either way, perhaps it’s okay to think he’s alive because of them. Because of you. 

When you step out of the kitchen, still wearing your apron, wrapped in red just like the very first night he ever saw you, Ari drops his bags to the floor with a careless thud. You open your arms and he falls into them, his hands finding their place on your back to press you close, and he feels like he can finally breathe again. 

His lungs expand with something even lighter and sweeter than air—the smell of salt and spice and orange blossoms. He kisses away your grateful tears one by one under the watchful eye of a nearby lucky cat and falling snowflakes until your mouths touch, and then he’s whispering it between your lips. 

Ari promises to always come back, every single Christmas until time stops and even thereafter, come hell or high water. 

And every year, without fail, you will always be the light that guides him home.

fin.

[hellishjoel]

cherry wine

629 words / pairing: oberyn martell x f!reader

← masterlist | notifications blog | seasons of life challenge masterlist

word: fireplace

warnings/information: fluff, descriptions of food, alcohol consumption, the connection to oberyn (partner, wife, friends, unattached, etc.) is up to the reader

a/n: I was thinking and envisioning warmth and immediately thought of our sweet prince of dorne. my banners are by @saradika-graphics. shoutout to @berryispunk and @lady-bess for putting this together on @fanfictionoverload!

The Prince of Dorne’s golden robes complement the crackling embers of the grand fireplace. 

The months spent planning the Festival of the Long Light had finally come to fruition, as today was the winter solstice celebration to welcome the return of longer days. 

It’s a long-standing Dornish tradition to celebrate with candles, lanterns, and bonfires to symbolize resilience and hope, even during the darkest time of the year. 

Prince Oberyn says that it strengthens the Dornish spirit. It’s ultimately his way of drinking wine from dawn til dusk while the crowds of happy townsfolk gather for archery contests, combat displays with flaming spears and swords, and dining on the winter citrus feast. 

After a day of indulgent celebration, the Prince has succumbed to the heady effects of wine, his sharp wit and natural charisma now softened into a playful blend of teasing flirtation and extravagant storytelling.

“Do you recall how I earned the nickname the Red Viper?” He muses, a lopsided smile on his lips as he leans along decorative pillows with you by his side. 

You take a sip of your warm spiced wine and nod thoughtfully. “I do believe that you will tell me-”

“House Yronwood was one of the most powerful houses in Dorne, only second to House Martell, of course,” he eagerly jumps in with theatrical hand movements, “Our houses have always had a… strained relationship.”

“Treacherous,” you hiccup.

“Yes, often to their family’s wrongful pride and our political dominance.”

“Surely,” you amuse him, both pausing to laugh with the sweet red wine coursing through your veins. 

“During our family gathering, the youngest heir to House Yronwood, Draymond, insulted my family’s honor. I wouldn’t let it stand.”

His eye contact is powerful, amber eyes highlighted by the flickering flames of the fireplace. The wood could use stoking as it hisses and whistles, but Oberyn’s loving hand gliding up and down your side has you in a trance.

“You wouldn’t let it stand, my love.” You agree, Oberyn’s dark head of hair nodding with a distracted lull as he glances to your lips. 

“I ended the duel without delivering a fatal blow, only striking him with a glancing hit. What appeared as a prick had the young heir collapsing hours later, stricken with pain and a fever. I had coated my sword with a non-lethal poison.” Obern smirked around his golden goblet, throwing back what was left of his cinnamon-spiced wine.  

Confusion laces your features, tilting your head with intrigue, your eyes ultimately softening. “You did not aim to kill him.”

The handsome prince found solace in your understanding. “It was never my intention to let it escalate. Some men wield their tongues like weapons—loud, reckless, and prone to stirring trouble. They rarely find peace, nor do those around them. After that... enlightening encounter, the family gave us no further grief. I realized then, if I wished for a peaceful princehood, I had to quell the storm before it could even gather."

Your eyes must appear dazzled and surprised, causing Oberyn to smile back at you. 

"I have lived a life of many adventures," Oberyn begins, his voice low and rich, each word dripping with quiet confidence. "I studied the arts and pleasures of the Free Cities, fought alongside legendary sellswords in Essos, and played dangerous games of power in Volantis." He pauses, his hand rough yet deliberate as it tilts your chin upward, his thumb brushing lightly along your jawline. His gaze, intense and unyielding, meets yours. "But you," he murmurs, his lips curving into a seductive smile, "you are the only adventure I crave now."

His hand, scarred from years of wielding a sword, presses gently against your cheek. It's a tenderness that contrasts with the fierce strength it once knew. His lips are soft and inviting, his tongue lining yours as you taste the cherry wine that still lingers.

[loveshotzz]

Here’s a little preview of everyone’s favorite Tamagotchi Daddy 😚 and an appearance at the end by your fave bartender.

Whatta Man Masterlist | Rick’s Party Playlist

as a reminder my blog is 18 +

Sheer curtains sway with a pink glow from the flashing sign outside your apartment, the nip in the October air makes goosebump dance across your exposed skin from the crack in your bedroom window. The summer heat came and went like it always does but not the cute bouncer you took home the first warm night of the year.

Weckx-N-Effect’s ‘Rump Shaker’ spills through the boombox in your living room where Steve stands in front of your long mirror, dressed as John Dalton from Road House, you hear the pitch in his voice deepen,

“Take the biggest guy in the world, shatter his knee and he’ll drop like a stone.”

Rolling your eyes at the line you’ve heard both him and Patrick Swayze deliver all week long, you adjust the white and blue trimmed high waisted basketball shorts that hug your curves before tugging down the cropped Tune Squad mesh tank that matches. Straightening your bunny ears, you turn around to inspect your tail, bubble gum pink glossed lips turning up into a pleased smirk with the height the white platform sneakers on your feet give you. Humming in approval because you know Baby Spice would be proud, your shoulders wiggle in excitement as you apply another layer of gloss before smacking your lips loudly.

“Hey Doc, you got the goods earlier right?” The bouncer calls out.

His boots sound heavy on your shag rug making his way towards the bathroom and even though you saw his outfit earlier, when Steve’s handsome face appears next to yours in the mirror with a wide grin, you still flutter around nothing. Dark emerald eyes turn black as they drink in your costume, and you're almost positive yours look the same admiring the thick patch of hair on full display in his white loose fitting button up. Long sleeves rolled up to his elbows with the top three undone just like Dalton’s.

The extra button reveals more than usual, including the silver chain that dangles from his neck. It shines under the dark curls that cover his chest when it hits the bright lights above you, matching the belt buckle attached to the black leather that holds his tight fitting jeans to his waist. The ivory of his shirt makes his permanently sunkissed skin glow, thighs pressing together when he licks his full lips, moles moving with his cheeks when he grins.

“Jesus, you look - fuck, why’s the tail doing it for me?” Finally breaking character, he runs a hand through his hair, the ring wrapped around his middle finger catching your eye in his reflection.

“Stop calling me that or everyone is going to think I’m Bugs Bunny.” You huff and his lips twitch at your pout, “and if by goods you mean, the Roadhouse soundtrack, yes I picked it up from your friend Robin.”

Turning around, you lean against the sink, the reminder of your promise to recreate the sex scene with him tonight has you giving him an extra exaggerated roll of your eyes, a smile lighting up your face despite yourself. Steve’s big black boots cross the threshold, thick rubber soles squeaking against the rose colored tile, he closes the small distance to stand in front of you.

The warm smell of his Calvin Klein CK One cologne lingers fresh on the cotton of his shirt, along with the faint hint of your hairspray when he stole a spritz when he first got to your apartment. The cinnamon from his Big Red is hot on his breath, the whites of his teeth showing in a grin as he pushes the gum to the other side of his mouth with a tongue that was between your thighs just a few hours ago.

“I’m sorry baby, I’ll stop. I can’t help it when I’m in character you know?” One of his big hands comes up to your face, long fingers spreading across your jaw tilting your mouth towards his. The bouncer takes in your done up features in the light, and the pucker of your glittery lips, looking at him like you needed to be kissed. “No one is going to think a pretty thing like you is anything other than hot.”

“Good.” You try to say it with more conviction, but the way he keeps looking at you like he wants to eat you alive makes it come out quiet.

“Oh yeah?” He questions with a quirked brow, his boots moving the one step left to stand in the space you made for him between your legs. The tip of his nose runs along the bridge of yours, his other hand finding a new home on the plush curve of your hip to pull you even closer. The denim doing nothing to hide just how much your outfit was affecting him.

“I’m gonna have to follow you around all night aren’t I? Gonna make me abuse my power and kick anyone out who even looks at my girl like they got a chance huh?” Steve mutters his threat against your lips, the tips of his fingers digging into the dip in your cheeks bringing your mouth to his.

The strawberry of your gloss is sweeter than it was thirty minutes ago and it makes him groan when his kiss turns possessive, tongues meeting in the middle when he licks into your mouth. Your hands find their way to his chest, your palms finding the warm skin of his chest, the blunt ends of your nails dragging through the dark thatch of hair. He nips at your bottom lip when he lets you go. Pink glitter staining his when he pulls away sticky, eyes blown wide feeling the way your leg starts to lift over his hip, daring him to come back for more.

He tuts at you with whatever self control he has left, letting his hungry gaze drop down to drink up every dip and soft curve on display for him. Your back arches under the heat of it and Steve catches the puffy tail resting perfectly on the curve of your ass in the reflection. His responsibility to get downstairs in five minutes doesn’t seem so important anymore.

“I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you.” He sounds almost angry, and pride swells in your chest.

His hand slides from your waist, fingertips tips dragging down the soft dough of your thigh making the hem of your shorts bunch up when he hooks them under your knee. He accepts your dare with a roll of his hips, his grin turning salacious when you gasp.

“That’s kinda the point, duh” the giggle that leaves your mouth is breathy as he ducks his head down to the crook of your neck to suck a fresh bruise where the previous one he left last week is almost healed, “oh my godddd.”

His lips curve against you, the hint of stubble along his jaw tickles as he makes his way with greedy lips to all the sensitive spots he’s discovered over the last few months, including the new one he found the other night right below your ear. He nips at the soft skin when your fingers tangle themselves into his hair with a harsh tug at his roots, the back of your calf pressing against his ass encouraging him more.

“Earlier wasn’t enough, my girl needs more attention doesn’t she?” His taunting comes out next to the shell of your ear, the deep baritone making you shiver. “It’s only been a few hours and you want me that bad again, huh?”

Your eyes hit the back of your head when he rolls your earlobe between his teeth. Another tug to his hair, a whine pushing past your pink lips trying to get more of anything he’ll give you.

“Come on baby, don’t be shy.” He hums pulling away from your neck, finally letting go of your face to squeeze at the fat of your ass propped on the sink, long fingers playing with your tail. “Tell me, I wanna hear it.”

The song on the radio changes, and Mase’s ‘What You Want’ encourages the next grind of your hips.

“Gonna make me beg for it Steve?” You pout looking up at him from under your lashes, relishing in the way you feel him twitch in his jeans at the thought. One of your hands trails down the muscles of his stomach, biting your lip when they twitch under your fingertips, adding more to the growing problem in your underwear.

The incessant high pitch beeping of both your tamagotchi’s cuts through the tension like a knife, making both of you freeze and you catch the way his eyes widen, the color coming back at the realization of their need to be fed.

“Steve, I swear to god-“ Your disbelief is quickly cut off by the bellowing voice of a certain bartender from outside your window.

“Hey! Asshole! I know you’re up there. Get your dick in your pants and get down here and help! It’s fucking Halloween!”

Eddie sounds like he’s already at his wits end, and you swear you hear him say ‘before I fuckin’ kill Rick’ as the bar door creaks open before slamming shut behind him.

[secretsmutcorner]

Passing winter

1,374 words | No Warrior (sequel to A first attempt)

Content | NSFW (oral sex), implied past non-con

Notes | Yves and Runar have some fun :)

I originally wrote the whole thing from Runar's POV but it didn't seem right, really.

Taglist | @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​​ @whump-me-all-night-long​​​​ @whumpadump1939​​ @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@whumpzone @angel-stars​​ @kixngiggles @whumpsy-daisies @yet-another-heathen

@rosesareviolentlyread @cupcakes-and-pain @hollowtreesinhollowwoods @pleasancies @much-ado-about-whumping

@nine-tailed-whump​​ @whump-em @itsleighlove @newbornwhumperfly @tears-and-lilies

@deluxewhump @whump-cravings @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning @neverthelass

@whumpsday @silent-orchid-lady @everynameistakencarrots @scoundrelwithboba

Runar had assumed that that night would take them back a few steps; that Yves, perhaps, would be more hesitant, that he would prefer to keep their touches lighter for a while. He was prepared to go along with it, of course, to enjoy what Yves could easily give and patiently wait for his scars to heal further.

But if anything, Yves’ kisses became more passionate. He didn’t try to go for Runar’s groin again, that was true, but they continued their gentle little explorations above the waistline as if nothing had happened — except, perhaps, that Yves’ lips were more eager to explore where only his hands had been.

When he came home from training that evening, a few days later, he threw himself right into Runar’s arms without a care in the world, aiming straight for his lips.

He had to say something. If it was all genuine — well, nothing could have made him happier; but he worried. Yves had felt the urge to apologize right away — what if he was pushing himself to make up for something?

»Don’t hurt yourself,« Runar said, easily catching the little thing in his arms. Playful, as if referring to the way he flung himself at him, but he knew Yves had seen the earnestness in his eyes when he stilled, looking up into his face.

He looked so sweet. Runar would never forgive himself if he allowed him to injure himself for his, Runar’s, sake.

»You’re worrying again, huh?«

»A little,« Runar confessed. He knew Yves had, at times, found his worries overbearing, but how could he help himself when it was Yves’ wellbeing on the line?

This time, though, Yves simply traced his fingers along his shoulders and lowered his gaze. »I’m alright,« he finally said. »I — you’re still thinking about… what happened the other night, right? But I’m okay. Promise.«

He looked up to give Runar a half-smile, and Runar couldn’t help but reach up and cup his cheek. »I just want to — make sure, I guess. Don’t push yourself for my sake, okay?«

»Oh.« Yves looked away. »Oh no, that’s not — that’s not what this is.« And then he smiled at Runar again. »It’s really not. I want you — whichever way I can have you.«

He blushed adorably under Runar’s fingers, and Runar felt the heat creep into his own cheeks, too. »I want you too,« he replied before thinking it through.

He didn’t want to ask too much. But Yves just grinned, and kissed him again.

And in the end, it was bafflingly easy.

Weeks passed, sure. Night ate the days away, snow and quiet covering the village.

But it only served to make the hut seem cozier.

That night, Yves had turned in early, face red from the cold. There had been days, two or three, where the snow and the cold seemed to get to him, and after some hesitation, he asked Runar to accompany him to the weavers’ house. Runar once more was proud of him, for having shed the fear of asking for help from a friend — and he felt strangely honoured. Most days, however, Yves didn’t even need his support.

And today he came home early, with a package wrapped in cloth, and beamed at him before he even kissed him. »Björn made a test run of cookies!«

They devoured the cookies cheerfully instead of dinner, the rare spices that had found their way into Björn’s hands from the warrior’s expedition a strange delight. Soon they were feeding each other, laughing.

When they hurried to bed, eager for their nightly caresses, Runar found Yves helping him out of his clothes, and it seemed so natural to reciprocate.

They hadn’t done this before, not quite like this.

There was still a chuckle in Yves' throat as they kissed, vibrating into Runar’s mouth.

And then, when their lips parted, Yves continued kissing him, trailing down his neck, into the now familiar places on his chest. His hands gently pushed him down on his back, then slid down until they sat on his hips as his lips continued their journey.

Runar simply kept him in his embrace, his heart racing as he watched. It couldn’t have been plainer where Yves was going.

»You don’t have to do this,« Runar breathed, even as his desire nearly suffocated him. Yves looked beautiful, and the touch of his lips — already his imagination was racing ahead.

Yves hands rubbed his thighs, almost careful compared to how he’d been the last few days. His mouth travelled down past his belly button, his breath against his skin alone driving Runar almost insane with want.

His hair brushed against his hard cock first.

»I want to,« Yves finally replied, his voice barely audible.

So Runar let him.

Yves proceeded hesitantly at first. This was good, Runar reminded himself, it meant he wasn’t pushing himself too hard, he was taking care of himself and he would have been pround of him for that, too, if his impatience hadn’t grown by the moment, by each tender touch. It was all he could do not too grab on to him too hard.

But Yves didn’t pull away, not this time, and before long, Runar found himself dissolving in bliss.

* The taste of semen filling his mouth almost took Yves back, but he just remembered he wouldn’t be punished if he just spit it out. So he did, and that made it easier.

And then there was the much more immediate echo of Runar calling his name inbetween moans of pleasure. The feeling of driving his lover over the edge — he had done this, by his own choices, his own actions. He wasn’t by any means an experienced lover, not even with the lessons the knights had beaten into him, but he was good enough.

He rested his cheek on Runar’s sweat-soaked thigh, catching his breath, and looked up into his face, still hazy, but looking down upon Yves with the softest, sweetest eye.

»Did that feel good?« It was a silly question — the answer so evident — but he wanted to hear it, still.

»It damn well did.« Runar pushed the words out between still-heavy breaths, and Yves smiled at the rawness of it. Runar was always so careful with him, but for the moment, he’d gotten him past it.

He turned his face back into Runar’s skin, littering more kisses as he slowly made his way back up to lay with him, in his arms.

He trailed his way up past his hip, up the gentle slope of his belly.

»There’s so much of you,« he muttered along his way. So much body for him to cover in kisses, to rest against and be held by.

»It used to scare you,« Runar said softly.

Yves had reached his nipple and bit it, gently. He was rewarded with another groan, pulling another smile from him.

»Yes. It used to.«

Finally, he buried himself in the crook of Runar’s neck, the whole length of his body resting against Runar’s, his strong arms wrapped around him once more. He sighed — oh to stay here for ever and ever.

»I’m so happy,« he whispered, and when Runar turned his head to look at him, he grinned with ease. »I’m so happy to be with you.«

And that wasn’t all; not even all he wanted Runar to know; he’d be happy to, Yves knew that. But he had to look away. »And I’m proud of me.«

Runar squeezed him gently. »You should be. You should be, my brave little sweetheart.«

For a while, they just lay there, and Yves, his hand on Runar’s chest, observed as his heartbeat calmed from the force with which it had thrown itself into his ribcage, as if it truly wanted to leap into Yves’ hand.

Then Runar said, »What about you, sweetheart? Do you want me to — touch you?«

Yves raised his eyes. He hadn’t quite thought about it, but now the prospect seemed exciting. Scary, too. He had been touched, but not the way Runar meant. Not that way, for certain. But truly, his body yearned for something.

He felt Runar’s heart hop under his hand as he replied, another grin stealing onto his lips, »We can try.«

[monster-disaster]

[vampire] Eva

vampire!Eva x human!male!Reader Good to know: mention of smut, blood sucking

Summary: You wake up to your wife coming home after work.

A/N: We met Eva before here and here (I recommend reading these two if you are new to my blog, so you can understand Eva's story a bit better.). And you can read Reg's story on my Patreon.

It’s still dark when you wake up to the rumble of a car. The familiar sound ripples through the quiet street as it parks down in front of the house. The brightness of the headlights streams through the windows, casting a yellow hue over the matching furniture for several seconds. Shadows stretch across the room and quickly disappear as you turn onto your other side, blinking lazily at the dark wooden door. Your mind is foggy from sleep, but you still recognize the sound of the entrance opening and closing with a muffled thud, followed by high heels echoing loudly in the silent house as they clank rhythmically up the stairs. You glance at the clock on your nightstand with a yawn. It’s not even four yet. The sun is still behind the horizon, and the streetlamps are still on while you listen to your wife's movements outside, doing her usual routine.

The sound of the shower running on the other side of the wall almost lulls you back to sleep. You melt deeper into the bed as you close your eyes and let the steady stream of water become a soothing background noise until the bedroom door opens and the fresh, clean scent of your wife reaches your nose. Rose and honey with a hint of spice.

Her steps are soft on the plush carpet, and the mattress dips under her weight as she climbs onto the bed beside you. She gently brushes a strand of hair from your forehead, her touch light and tender. Her long nails graze over your temple.

When you open your eyes and smile at her, she reciprocates the gesture. She wears black lingerie that barely reaches the middle of her thighs with lacey details and thin straps over her shoulders.

"Hey," Eva whispers. "Did I wake you?"

You hum, letting her rest her head on your arm as you pull her closer against your body. She is soft and warm under your caressing fingertips as you draw slow circles on her shoulder blade, moving up on the delicate curve of her neck and raking through her still-wet hair. The dark brown locks curl around your fingers, and you play with them with half-closed eyes.

“It’s fine,” you tell her. “You know I don’t like sleeping without you.”

And it’s really unfortunate since Eva works at night, and you need your sleep to function in daylight like a normal human being.

“How was your day?” she asks, sneaking her arm around your middle while her leg slips between yours, and she clings to you with every delicious inch of her body.

“Boring,” you tell her. “The usual. And your night?”

You don’t even have to see her face to know she is smiling into the crook of your neck. “I went over to the antique shop to talk with Reg’s girlfriend.”

You groan.

“What? Me or Boss. I think I was the better option,” she reasons, amused.

“You both are like gossiping old ladies.”

Eva chuckles quietly but doesn’t argue. “I needed to know.”

“So you didn’t believe me?” you ask her. Your voice is still hoarse from sleeping.

“You and your gossip,” she says, and you can’t help but grin at her retort.

“Riel told me.”

The vampire woman in your arms laughs again. “As I said, you and your gossip.”

You can’t argue. Grimbrook is a small town, and people tend to care a bit too much about each other’s business, especially when it has anything to do with the pub on the main street.

“So?” you ask her after a few seconds, knowing well enough that you are a hypocrite. “What did you find out?”

Eva, not moving away from the warmth of your neck, hits your chest without any strength. Her red nails glint under the dim light of the streetlamp in front of the house, filtering through the windows.

“You were right,” she replies. “They plan to come on Friday.”

You huff, trying to suppress your laughter. “Told you so.”

Your words are followed by another swat you barely feel.

“It will be fun,” Eva grins, and you scoff, knowing her too well.

“I don’t think they are ready for you, my love,” you tell her, smoothing your palm over her upper arm. “Reg made it clear that she is off limits.”

“Yeah,” Eva sighs with a hint of disappointment. “His girl told me something similar.”

You can’t blame them, though. Their relationship is still new, and the demon’s possessiveness is understandable, while his girl has never been in the pub before. They are definitely not ready for Eva.

“I’m sure you will find someone else,” you tell her with amusement in your voice. “Give that poor girl some time.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not curious,” Eva hums. Her voice deepens with each word that fans over your neck. A shiver ripples through your spine when you feel her fangs grazing your skin where your pulse is.

“I could play with her in so many ways.” Her hand slips down from your chest to rest between your legs. “I bet she tastes good… in both ways.”

Feeling the tips of her fangs punches a ragged breath out of your lungs, but otherwise, your body stays in its tired, lazy state. Her delicate fingers curl around your dick through your pants, rubbing over the head with her thumb teasingly.

“Wouldn’t you—” Whatever she wants to say gets stuck in her throat when she notices the lack of your reaction.

“I’m sorry,” you break the silence with an uncomfortable strain in your voice. You can feel the heat creeping up your cheeks with embarrassment and shame.

Even though the image of your wife with another woman is always arousing, your body is too tired to get the memo your mind tries to send to it. The bed is too warm and too comfortable, and your muscles are sore from work. To be honest, you are too content holding Eva against yourself right now. No matter how much you want to get in the mood, your lower region doesn’t agree with you.

“Don’t,” your wife says, gliding her hand up your body until her small palm rests on your cheek. The soft pad of her thumb ghosts over the skin under your eye. “It happens.”

“I—”

“Don’t,” she cuts in with a bit more power in her voice. “We have been married too long to feel bad about things like this. It’s too early anyway, and you’re tired. I understand.”

Pulling her closer, you tilt your head to kiss her shoulder. “I love you.”

Eva grins. “I know. And because you love me, you should definitely surprise me with something sweet from the bakery.”

A lazy, knowing grin pulls at your lips as your eyes slowly fall shut. “Or I could offer something better.”

“You don’t want to wake up early, huh?”

You laugh but don’t deny it. If you have to go to the bakery, there is no reason for you to fall asleep.

“Fine,” she says. “Just because I love you.”

“You mean my taste.”

Eva hums. “That too.”

When morning comes barely a few hours later, you wake up still a bit sleepy and disoriented, with your wife plastered against your body. The room is filled with the soft light of dawn, casting a gentle glow over your lying forms on the bed. The faint chirping of birds outside filters through the closed windows, mixing with the noises of your awakening neighbors. Eva's cheek rests on your chest, and her arm is draped over your stomach. Her hair is a tangled mess, and her lips are slightly open as she sleeps. Her steady breathing matches the slow rhythm of your heartbeat, and, risking falling back asleep, you stay where you are, under the warm blankets with Eva in your arms. You gently run your fingers through her hair, careful not to wake her. The soft strands slip through your fingers like silk.

She fidgets a little, snuggling closer, and your hand freezes in her hair. "Good morning," she hums. Her voice is hoarse from sleep.

"Good morning," you reply, continuing to play with her brown locks.

"If you don't get up, you will be late," Eva warns you but does nothing to untangle herself from you, and you don't move either.

"Nobody cares," you tell her. Owning a car repair shop with your best friends has its perks. "Besides, I promised you something."

When Eva stops breathing for a second, a knowing half-smirk pulls on your lips. "So? What do you say? Or should I get up and go to work?" You tease her, and her arms tighten around your middle instantly. "Thought so," you laugh.

"Don't invite the vampire if you don't mean it," Eve hums, grinning.

In the calmness of your bedroom, bathed in the soft morning light, your heart flutters in your chest the same way it always does when you offer yourself to your wife. Her hand from your stomach slips up to your face. Her nails trace the line of your jaw as she tilts your head to the side, giving herself more access to your neck. Your pulse quickens from the small show of strength. It feels like the beat of your heart echoes off the walls and not just in your ribcage. Eva's presence shimmers in the cool morning air, sending shivers through your tensing body. You can do nothing with your reaction. Even though your mind knows that you are safe, your body still urges you to fight against the predator leaning above you, even if said predator smells like lotions and home.

A gasp bursts out of your closed mouth when her lips ghost over the spot under your ear, going down until she hovers above your pulse. Your chest heaves, and Eva giggles beside you. It's a low sound that pushes your nerves to the edge.

"Are you still afraid, husband?" She teases. Her hold on your jaw eases when you don't move. Her thumb rubs over your stubble in small circles.

Your throat tightens but it's not necessarily fear that keeps you from answering. There is a mix of feelings in the pit of your stomach, urging you to do something, yet keeping you frozen on the soft sheets of the bed.

A hiss follows your silence when Eva's lips part, and you feel the wet touch of her tongue on your skin. The anticipation from both of you is palpable in the air. Your exhale is ragged and heavy. She licks and nibbles the junction of your neck and shoulder. It's not enough to hurt, but still reminds you of her sharp fangs you felt on and in yourself so many times through the years of your relationship with the petite vampire woman.

As she sinks her teeth into your flesh, there is a brief sting that surges through your body. Your fingers curl into fists, and a throaty moan escapes your lips. Every sucking motion of her lips and lick of her tongue sends you spiraling into pain and pleasure. Your heart slows down a little, and the rapid beat in your chest picks up the rhythm of the pull of your wife's soft lips on your neck. You can feel your muscles relax and you melt against the bed even more while Eva drinks with pleased sighs and moans. The sound of her voice ripples through your spine, going straight between your legs with an aching throb. Her body against yours is pliant and warm.

The intimate moment between you and the vampire doesn't last long. Eva has to make sure you won't spend your whole day in bed just because she couldn't stop herself in time. Slowly, she withdraws her fangs but still stays close to lick the small wounds several times. Your body tingles with every small, delicate touch of her tongue and brush of her lips.

When she is done and you can turn your head to look at her, you can't help but be in awe at the sight in front of you. Her dark hair is a curly mess, framing her delicate features and the light blush spreading across her cheeks. Her eyes gleam with a new shine, and her lips are deep red even without her usual lipstick.

"How are you feeling?" She asks, brushing your hair out of your forehead.

"'m good," you hum, still a bit dizzy.

"Yeah," she grins, running her eyes down on your body. "I see that."

Following her gaze, you notice the bulge between your legs, the same time the pleasure throbbing in your body gets more demanding for your attention, and a smile pulls on your lips, similar to your wife's. Bracing yourself on one of your elbows, you reach for Eva with your other hand. Your fingertips barely brush over her arm when she pulls away.

"You will be late," she says, enjoying herself a bit too much at your expense. "Come home early," she hums, letting her gaze linger on your sweatpants-covered erection. "And I will see what I can do about it."

You groan, sitting up to grab her by the back of her neck. Her laugh vibrates on your lips as you press a searing, playful kiss on her mouth.

"Minx," you grunt.

You listen to her laughing even when you leave the bedroom to take a quick shower.

A cold one.

[cupidzome]

domestic!stainmight + random hcs pt.1

chizome blushes like a schoolgirl i know it hes pale as a vampire and when he gets red he gets CHERRY RED. hes tried to train himself out of blushing bc its so hard to hide when ur glow in the dark pale.

toshinori's eyesight gets worse as he gets older and he has to get glasses but he doesnt like wearing them because hes like "i can see JUST FINE!" (squints) "see watch me read that billboard thats all the way over there"

chizome doesnt have puppy dog eyes but when he looks at something he wants his pupils get really big and watery and toshinori is like "ur like an open book without that mask" & buys it for him bc he will not ask for it

they communicate in physical touch. tugging on each others clothes, laying on each other, seeking out each others warmth all the time. theyre a touchy couple bc toshinori likes warming chizomes ever-cold hands up with his own, and chizome likes feeling the blood pulsing beneath toshinoris skin

toshinori has a thing for stains tongue & fangs but when he tries to bring it up like "hey... do you i dunno. drink blood? with ur tongue and fangs" and chizome is like "NO i would never do that to u toshinori i could hit something important and you could die like a million different ways im happy with regular blood packets!" and toshinori is like "DAMNIT! hes too conscious of my overall health"

chizome has a fascination with the human body that leads to him randomly just 'inspecting' parts of toshinoris body. flexing his arm for him, stretching his legs, randomly massaging into toshinoris shoulders. he loves him down to the bone marrow

toshinori picks up hobbies like bird feeding, bread baking, and scrapbooking meanwhile chizome is fighting his archenemies on etsy for a never before heard of comic book thats solely in french and has 2 fans and not even a twitter tag.. he makes himself a blog because none of his posts are under 2 paragraphs hes got TOO much to say.

toshinori adores being in the sun, and if you cant find him around the house hes probably on his front lawn sunbathing. he HATES winter and he lovesss summer so much. chizome has to make sure to get him into the routine of using sunscreen though

they decide on getting a pet and when toshinori is looking through the dogs and petting them all, chizome comes up to him with the most fucked up looking pug ever (like the one in mitchells vs the machines). they obviously adopt it and toshinori gets to name him 'pumpkin pie'

chizome treats everything thats his with CARE. so you know that he does his best to spoil toshinori rotten in the ways he can. he refills the fridge, prescriptions, spices, shampoo, ANYTHING. hes got daily to-do lists and i know he's got a thick planner and the neatest handwriting.

chizomes prepared-ness vs toshinoris desire to help so you can see toshinori happily running errands for chizome with 5 coupons and 20 dollars for toshinori to buy himself a treat along the way. chizome carries cash and he presses the bills into toshinoris hands like "buy urself something nice sweetheart"

[kckt88]

Scorched Hearts - Younger I

Summary:

'We loved with a love that was more than love - Edgar Allen Poe'

A glimpse into the past of Aemond and Valaena.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Mild Violence, Reference to Violence Against A Child, First Kiss, Seperation, Blood, Eye Injury, Self Loathing.

AEMOND x O.C Niece

Word Count: 8730

A.N -

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx

The sun shone bright over the training grounds of the Red Keep, casting long shadows as the clash of wooden swords echoed in the air.

Valaena stood by the weapons chest, her small fingers brushing the cool edge of the lid as she watched her brothers, Jace and Luke, sparring against their uncles Aegon and Aemond.

Their laughter and the occasional grunt of effort filled the space, each of them engrossed in the mock battle.

Valaena’s heart ached as she stood there, longing to join them. She clenched her small hands into fists, frustration bubbling in her chest.

Why couldn’t she pick up a sword too?

She might be able to fight as well as any of them if only she were given the chance.

But no, she was a girl, and the training ground was no place for her. Her days were filled with embroidery, memorizing the names of lords and castles, and practicing the graciousness expected of a Queen.

She glowered at the thought.

If duty meant being left on the sidelines while everyone else had fun, she didn’t want it.

Valaena’s gaze lingered on Aemond as he stepped back, his wooden sword poised with precision. His movements were sharp and deliberate, his focus unwavering.

He didn’t carry the same careless energy as Aegon or the easy camaraderie Jace and Luke shared. There was a quiet intensity to him, one that fascinated Valaena.

But more than that, there was something else—a sadness she couldn’t quite name.

While the others sparred, Aemond often stood alone. Even when he fought alongside them, he seemed apart, an island unto himself.

It made her chest tighten to see him that way, isolated in a way that felt deeply unfair. She wanted to approach him, to talk to him, to ask him why he seemed so distant, but the words never came.

Instead, when their eyes met across the training yard, she gave him a small, discreet wave.

To her surprise, Aemond smiled and inclined his head in return. Her cheeks warmed, a blush creeping across her face as she looked down quickly, pretending to fiddle with the edge of her sleeve.

Her mind raced.

What could she do to make him happy?

She wanted to see him smile again, to banish that loneliness from his expression. A thought struck her—a simple, childlike solution that made perfect sense.

Sweets!

Everyone liked sweets, didn’t they? Surely, a treat would lift Aemond’s spirits.

Resolving herself, Valaena turned on her heel, leaving the training grounds behind. Her sandals slapping against the stone floor as she made her way toward the kitchens, excitement bubbling within her.

She imagined the look on Aemond’s face when she presented him with the treat. Perhaps he’d laugh, or perhaps he’d speak to her more. Maybe he’d even thank her and tell her she was clever.

And just maybe, in some small way, he’d like her.

Valaena tiptoed into the Red Keep’s kitchens, her heart racing with the thrill of her small rebellion.

The air was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread, spiced pies, and the faint tang of roasted meat.

Long wooden tables were cluttered with pots, bowls, and rolling pins, and in the corner sat a tray laden with sweets—golden tarts, sugar-dusted biscuits, and small candied fruits that glistened like tiny jewels.

Her eyes lit up as she approached, her hands twitching with anticipation. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching and then reached out, snatching a handful of the treats. Just as she stuffed them into her hands, a shadow loomed over her, and she froze.

“Ahem-”

Valaena turned, her breath hitching as she looked up at a plump older woman with flour-splattered cheeks and a wooden ladle clutched in her hand like a weapon. The cook stared down at her, raising an eyebrow.

“What do we have here?” the woman asked in a stern tone.

“I-I was-was just-” Valaena stammered, quickly hiding her hands behind her back. Her lip wobbled as she tried to think of an excuse. “Please don’t tell my mama-”

The cook crossed her arms, her gaze steady. “Stealing is wrong, little Princess.”

“I’m sorry, cooky lady,” Valaena whispered, her cheeks reddening. “I-I’ll put them back. I just wanted to cheer up my uncle-he seems very sad and-and-”

The cook’s expression softened at her words. She sighed, shaking her head before putting her ladle on the side. “Go on, then. Take them. But next time, you ask, do you hear me?”

Valaena’s face brightened with a smile, and she nodded eagerly. “I will! Thank you, cooky lady!”

The cook chuckled softly, the corners of her lips twitching into a smile. “Go on, get out of here, Princess. Wouldn’t want you getting caught wandering where you don’t belong.”

Valaena paused, turning back to the cook with a puzzled expression. “Where I don’t belong?”

The cook let out a weary sigh, brushing the flour from her hands. “You’re a Princess, and I’m a servant. We belong to different worlds, little one. One day you’ll understand. People like me aren’t meant to mix with people like you.”

Valaena tilted her head, her brow furrowing. “But why?”

The cook chuckled softly, though there was a hint of melancholy in her voice. “That’s just the way things are, child.”

“But why?” Valaena pressed, her frown deepening.

The cook exhaled, her patience waning. “You’re young. You’ll see when you’re older.”

“But we all live—and someday, we’ll all die. Isn’t that the same?” Valaena asked, her head tilted in earnest curiosity.

The cook paused, her voice carrying a note of quiet sorrow. “The lives we lead couldn’t be more different.”

“Why?” Valaena insisted, pursing her lips.

“It just is, Princess,” the cook murmured, her words heavy with resignation.

Valaena looked down at the sweets cradled in her hands.

After a moment of thought, she picked the most delicious-looking one—a tart with golden glaze—and held it out to the cook.

“Here. Sweets always make everything better.”

The cook’s eyes widened in surprise, and she smiled, taking the tart carefully. “Thank you, Princess.”

Valaena beamed, but then asked, “What’s your name, cooky lady?”

The cook raised an eyebrow, bemused. “Flora,” she said after a moment.

“I’m Valaena,” the young princess replied proudly, her head held high.

Flora laughed softly, shaking her head. “I know who you are, Princess.”

Valaena frowned, shaking her head firmly. “No, I’m just Valaena.”

The cook smiled, her eyes crinkling with affection. “Very well, Valaena.”

“Thank you, Flora,” Valaena said with a grin. “But I must give these to my uncle now. Perhaps I shall come to see you again.”

“I would like that,” Flora said, her voice gentle.

With a final smile, Valaena turned and darted out of the kitchen, racing back to the training yard with the sweets clutched in her hands.

Valaena arrived back at the training yard, her hand clutching the sweets she had carefully pilfered, only to be greeted by the chaotic sight of Ser Harwin Strong reigning punches down on Ser Criston Cole.

The sound of fists connecting with flesh echoed around the grounds, Ser Harwin’s booming voice shouting, “Say it again! Say it again!”

His anger reverberated like thunder, and it took three Kingsguard to pull him away.

As Ser Harwin was escorted past her, his face a mixture of fury and frustration, Valaena’s gaze met his.

On impulse, she reached out and gently squeezed his hand, a silent gesture of comfort.

Ser Harwin looked down at her, his stormy expression softening for a moment, before he was pulled away.

Valaena let go, her attention turning toward Aemond.

She approached him, her steps light, and held out one of the sweets in her hand. “For you, Uncle,” she said softly, her violet eyes shimmering with quiet warmth.

Aemond stared at her, his features momentarily unreadable. Then, he nodded and reached for the sweet, his fingers brushing hers as he took it.

“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice low.

“I saw you earlier,” Valaena said, her tone brightening. “You’re very good with sparring.”

Aemond’s lips quirked into a small smile, but before he could reply, Aegon sauntered over, his usual smirk plastered across his face.

“What’s this, little niece?” Aegon asked, his tone mockingly sweet as he reached for the sweets in her hand.

“Not for you, Uncle,” Valaena snapped, pulling her hand back protectively. “Get your own”

Aegon scoffed, his pride clearly pricked. “How rude.” With a flick of his wrist, he slapped her hand, sending the sweets tumbling to the dirt.

Valaena’s lips wobbled, her breath hitching as Aegon laughed cruelly.

“Aww, are you going to cry, little girl?”

“You’re mean!” Valaena blurted, her voice shaking.

Aegon shrugged nonchalantly. “So? What are you going to do about it? Nothing. That’s all you ever have—nothing. No friends, no dragon. Makes you wonder if you’re even a Targaryen at all.”

His words struck deep, and Valaena glanced at Aemond, whose scowl mirrored her own pain. Aemond, like her, was without a dragon, and Aegon’s taunts seemed to cut them both equally.

Aegon’s laughter only grew as he shoved Valaena, sending her sprawling to the ground.

“Leave her alone!” Aemond snapped, his voice sharp as he moved to help her up.

Aegon stopped laughing, only to sneer at his younger brother. “Oh, look, the dragon less wonder comes to the rescue.”

But before Aegon could continue his mockery, Valaena surged forward, her small fist connecting with his nose in a satisfying crack.

Aegon’s eyes widened in shock as he stumbled back, blood trickling from his nostrils.

“You little shit!” Aegon snarled, lunging toward her, but Aemond stepped in front of Valaena, his arm outstretched as he pushed his older brother back.

“That’s enough,” Aemond said coldly, his voice steady and commanding.

Aegon wiped the blood from his nose, his face twisting with fury. “You two losers deserve each other,” he spat before stomping off, Jace and Luke following close behind with uncertain expressions.

Valaena brushed dirt from her dress, her cheeks flushed with anger and shame. “Thank you,” she murmured, glancing at Aemond.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his tone casual as he turned away to begin placing the wooden swords back on the rack.

Feeling disheartened, Valaena turned to leave the training grounds. But just as she reached the edge, Aemond’s voice called after her.

“Good punch, by the way.”

Valaena stopped, turning to see him looking at her with a faint, approving smile.

A smile broke across Valaena’s face, and she nodded. “Thank you.”

For the first time that day, Aemond’s smile lingered, and Valaena left the training yard with a newfound spark of courage in her heart.

Valaena sat cross-legged on the cool stone floor of her chambers, her fingers tracing the smooth, polished edges of her wooden dragon figurines.

Each one was meticulously carved, the detail of their scales and wings so lifelike that she often imagined they might come alive in her hands.

She loved her toys, but as her gaze lingered on the little wooden figures, a heavy question began to press on her heart.

Would these carvings be the closest she ever came to having a dragon of her own?

The thought sent a pang of doubt through her chest.

What kind of Queen would she be if she never had a dragon?

Her mother had Syrax, her grandsire had been the last to claim Balerion the Black Dread, and Old King Jaehaerys, whom the bards still sang of, had commanded Vermithor.

Would the realm see her as weak?

Would they whisper behind her back that she was unworthy to sit the Iron Throne because she lacked the fiery majesty that defined her house?

People already whispered about her, she knew. Valaena wasn’t deaf to the hushed voices in the corridors of the Red Keep or the side-eyed glances as she walked by.

“She doesn’t have silver hair like her mother,” they would murmur. “-Or any Targaryen.”

Her hair was dark, like her brothers’, like Ser Harwin’s.

That truth loomed over her like a shadow she couldn’t escape, but Valaena didn’t want to dwell on it—not the way the courtiers and gossips did.

Her mother, Rhaenyra, always sidestepped such questions with the poise she could muster.

“You are a Targaryen,” her mother always said. “And that is all that matters.”

But without a dragon, Valaena didn’t feel much like a Targaryen. She felt ordinary, just like everyone else in the castle who didn’t have wings to carry them into the sky or fire in their blood to set the world alight.

Her fingers tightened around the figurine, her nails digging into its wooden sides. She wanted to believe her mother’s words.

She wanted to feel the power and pride of her house coursing through her veins, but without a dragon, it was hard to hold onto that feeling.

She sighed, letting the little wooden dragon drop onto the floor with a soft clatter.

For now, all she had were these toys and her dreams of what might be.

But dreams, no matter how vivid, couldn’t chase away the doubt.

Valaena picked up the shiny silver dragon figurine and cradled it in her hands.

“Maybe someday,” she whispered to the little dragon, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire in her hearth. “Maybe someday, you’ll be real.”

For now, though, the wooden dragons were all she had, and as much as she tried to imagine otherwise, they weren’t enough to fill the emptiness that burned inside her.

Valaena was skipping along the corridor, her little satchel of sweet treats that Flora had given her bouncing against her hip, when she saw Aemond rush past her.

His face was streaked with soot, his silver hair dishevelled, and his eyes red and swollen.

She hesitated for a moment, clutching the strap of her satchel. Aemond wasn’t always the easiest to approach, especially when he was upset.

But something about the look in his eyes pulled her forward. She quickened her steps, following him down the winding hall and out into the gardens.

She found him hunched near the ancient weirwood tree, his shoulders trembling as he furiously wiped at his face.

Valaena stopped a few paces away and called his name softly.

“Aemond?”

His head snapped up, his violet eyes glaring at her through strands of silver hair.

“Get lost,” he snarled, his voice thick with anger and embarrassment.

Valaena paused, unphased by his outburst. She reached into her satchel and pulled out one of the treats.

“Would you like a sweet?” she offered, holding it out in her palm. “I got them from the kitchens this morning.”

Aemond scowled, his face twisting in frustration, but after a moment, he nodded stiffly.

Valaena smiled. “Follow me.” She turned and led him to a thick bush near the edge of the gardens.

Parting the branches, she revealed a hollow space beneath, just large enough for the two of them to sit.

“This is my secret hiding place,” she said with pride, stepping inside and settling on the soft grass. She patted the ground beside her. “No one will find us here.”

Aemond hesitated, casting a wary glance around, but then he sighed and crawled in after her. He sat beside her, his knees drawn up to his chest.

Valaena opened her satchel, pulling out a handful of treats. “Which one do you want?”

Aemond pointed to the one in her left hand, and she handed it over without hesitation. They sat in companionable silence, munching on the sweets.

The tension in Aemond’s shoulders seemed to ease as he chewed, though his gaze remained fixed on the ground.

When they finished, Valaena broke the quiet. “Why were you so upset?”

Aemond’s face darkened, and he looked away, his cheeks flushing pink. “They all laughed at me,” he muttered.

“Who?”

“Aegon,” he said bitterly, wiping at his eyes again, “and your brothers. They gave me a p-pig.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he clenched his fists. “They called it the Pink Dread”

Valaena’s heart ached at the pain in his voice. She reached out and took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sorry, Aemond. That was cruel of them.”

He glanced at her, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and squeezed her hand back.

They sat in silence for a long moment before Aemond spoke again, his voice low but resolute.

“I vow,” he said, his tone filled with determination, “-that one day I will claim the greatest dragon alive and they will never dare to mock me again-”

Valaena’s lips curled into a small smile. “Maybe that’s why your egg didn’t hatch,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe your dragon is already out there somewhere, waiting for you.”

Aemond turned to her, a flicker of hope sparking in his eyes. “Do you really think so?”

She nodded. “I do. We weren’t meant for hatchlings. Our claims belong to the dragons of old. I’m certain of it.”

Aemond stared at her for a moment, his expression softening. “I hope you’re right, Valaena.”

She grinned and leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “And maybe, just maybe, I’ll claim one of my own, too.”

For the first time that day, Aemond smiled, and it was enough to warm Valaena’s heart.

Together, they sat beneath the canopy of the bush, their shared hope for the future quietly binding them in a way that neither of them could yet put into words.

Over the next few weeks, Valaena and Aemond grew inseparable.

While the others flew with their dragons, Valaena and Aemond found solace in each other’s company.

They spent hours in the gardens, their laughter echoing beneath the shade of the weirwood tree, or lost in the library, devouring books on history and philosophy.

One sunny afternoon, Valaena skipped along the stone path, humming a cheerful tune. She was meant to be in her lessons with Septa Wella, but her heart led her elsewhere.

The weirwood tree was her sanctuary, and Aemond, sitting at its base with a book in hand, was waiting for her.

She spotted him ahead and quickened her steps, but her foot caught on an uneven stone. She tumbled to the ground, scraping her knee.

Tears welled in her eyes as she sat up, clutching her injured leg.

Aemond immediately rushed to her side, dropping to his knees. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Valaena whimpered, pointing to her knee. “It hurts.”

Aemond examined the scrape. It was bleeding slightly but not severe. “It’s just a small scrape-” he said, his tone soothing. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Before he could say more, a shadow loomed over them. Septa Wella stood there, her face a mask of fury.

“Princess Valaena,” the Septa said sharply, “-you have important lessons to attend”

Valaena glared up at her, still clutching her knee. “I don’t want to go. I want to play with Aemond.”

“That is not your choice,” Septa Wella replied, her voice tight with disapproval. “As future Queen, there are values you must learn. The crown works closely with the Faith of the Seven. These lessons are vital.”

Valaena’s scowl deepened. “But what about the Valyrian gods? Shouldn’t I learn about them too?”

The Septa scoffed, unimpressed. “The Faith of the Seven is what matters in the realm. You will understand this in time.” She reached down and grabbed Valaena’s arm, trying to pull her to her feet.

Valaena, with fire in her eyes, leaned forward and bared her teeth, snapping them in the Septa’s direction.

Septa Wella shrieked, recoiling. “You vicious little beast!”

Aemond stood abruptly, his violet eye flashing. “Perhaps my niece would be more cooperative if you spent less time scolding her,” he said coldly.

Septa Wella straightened, smoothing her robes. “But, my Prince, the Princess is stubborn and belligerent. Such attitudes are unbefitting of a future Queen.”

Aemond tilted his head, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Hmmm. And perhaps you should have more respect for the future Queen.”

The Septa narrowed her eyes at him but bowed, her politeness clearly feigned. “I shall endeavour to correct my behaviour, my Prince.”

Aemond gave a curt nod before turning his attention back to Valaena. “Are you all right?”

Before Valaena could answer, Septa Wella interjected, her tone clipped. “Oh, do not worry, my Prince. The Princess will be fine.”

With that, the Septa grabbed Valaena’s arm once more, dragging her away. Valaena’s eyes filled with fear as she looked back at Aemond, silently pleading for help.

Aemond watched them go, his fists clenching at his sides. He knew the Septa’s strictness was part of her duty, but the sight of Valaena’s terrified face lingered in his mind long after she disappeared from view.

He vowed to find a way to protect her—not just from Septa Wella, but from the suffocating expectations that seemed determined to stifle the bright, fierce spirit he had come to admire so deeply.

Valaena lay curled up in her bed, her small body trembling as tears soaked her pillow.

Her back throbbed where Septa Wella's whip had left its stinging marks, each stripe a cruel reminder of the words that had been flung at her like daggers.

"Creature born of sin and depravity," the Septa had hissed. "You are no true Targaryen. Your egg didn’t hatch because you were never meant to be one of them."

The words echoed in Valaena’s mind, sharp and cutting, tearing at the fragile sense of self she had tried to hold onto.

She hugged her stuffed dragon tightly to her chest, its worn scales damp from her tears. The maids would come soon; she knew they would.

They always did, hovering around her like bees to honey, eager to report back to her mother if anything seemed amiss.

Valaena didn’t want that. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

As she lay there, staring into the dancing flames in the hearth, the truth settled over her like a suffocating weight.

It was a truth she had somehow known deep down, even as she had tried to ignore it, to wish it away.

Harwin Strong was her father. Not Laenor Velaryon, the man who was supposed to be her father, who the realm believed was her father.

Her mother had lain with Harwin instead, and Valaena, like her brothers, was the proof of that indiscretion. She hadn’t asked for this, hadn’t asked to be born into a web of lies and whispers. Yet here she was.

The pointed stares, the quiet murmurs in the halls, the sideways glances—they were her fault.

She was the reason her family carried this burden, the reason her brothers were mocked and ridiculed. It was her existence that cast a shadow over them all.

And in that moment, Valaena hated her mother.

She hated her mother for her choices, for the shadow she had cast over their family, for the pain and shame that Valaena and her brothers endured every day. If it weren’t for her grandsire, the King’s wilful blindness, Valaena knew she wouldn’t even be here.

None of them would.

She wiped her nose on the edge of her bed sheet, sniffling as she tried to quiet her sobs. The maids would come soon, and she couldn’t let them see her like this.

Gingerly, she climbed out of bed, wincing as the movement pulled at her sore back. Her fingers trembled as she changed into her nightclothes, the soft fabric brushing against her raw skin and making her wince.

Once dressed, she climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She burrowed deeper into the blankets, the stuffed dragon clutched tightly in her arms as she stared into the fire. The flames flickered and danced, their light casting shadows across the walls of her chamber.

Valaena watched the flames until her eyes grew heavy, her tears drying on her cheeks. But even as sleep tugged at her, the sting of Septa Wella's words and the ache in her heart refused to fade.

Only thoughts of Aemond offered her solace: the warmth of his smile, the way his eyes sparkled with laughter, the delicate freckles scattered across his face, and the way he would sometimes hold her hand as they read together.

He was her friend—her only friend. And maybe, just maybe, one day Valaena prayed that he would be something more.

The Red Keep buzzed with a flurry of activity as trunks were packed, maids hurried back and forth with Rhaenyra issuing instructions with a strained voice.

Valaena stood off to the side, her heart sinking as she watched her life at the castle being dismantled before her eyes.

They were leaving for Dragonstone, her mother had said, a place of safety and tradition, far away from the whispers and stares of King’s Landing.

Valaena barely noticed. Her world was shattering. She wasn’t just leaving the Red Keep; she was leaving him.

Aemond.

The thought of parting from him made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t fully explain.

Without him, what was she? Just a lonely girl with no dragon, trapped by the weight of her name.

She couldn’t let it end like this.

Slipping away from her chambers, her small feet barely made a sound on the stone floors as she ran through the familiar corridors.

She didn’t care if her mother found out she’d vanished. She didn’t care if the maids scolded her for disobedience.

All that mattered was seeing Aemond, one last time.

She found him sitting beneath the weirwood tree, his head bowed, his shoulders tense. He didn’t look up immediately as she approached, but when he did, the sadness in his eyes mirrored her own.

“I’m leaving for Dragonstone-” Valaena said, her voice trembling.

“I know,” Aemond replied, his tone clipped but hollow.

“I don’t want to go,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened as he looked away, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “What choice do you have?” he said quietly, bitterness seeping into his voice. “What choice do we ever have?”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she stepped closer, her small hands trembling as she reached for his. “But I’ll miss you. So much.”

At that, he turned back to her, his expression softening as his fingers intertwined with hers. “And I’ll miss you,” he admitted, his voice cracking.

They stood there for a moment, hand in hand, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words.

“I wish we could stay together,” Valaena finally said, her tears spilling over.

Aemond looked up at the weirwood tree, its carved face gazing down at them with an ancient, solemn expression. When he spoke, his voice was low but firm. “Then we will.”

Her brow furrowed. “How?”

“When we’re grown,” he said, his eye meeting hers with fierce determination, “I vow to you. That I will marry you. And we will never be parted again.”

Her breath hitched, his words both a comfort and a wound. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he said, his voice unwavering.

She tried to smile through her tears, but it broke into a sob as Aemond reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek.

Then, with a trembling hand, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was a fleeting kiss, soft and hesitant, but it was full of all the things they couldn’t say—longing, fear, and a desperate hope that the future might somehow be kinder.

“Valaena!” Rhaenyra’s voice echoed through the gods wood, sharp and commanding.

Valaena flinched, her time running out. She clung to Aemond in a desperate hug, her tears soaking into his tunic. “Don’t forget me,” she begged.

“I could never forget you,” he whispered fiercely, his arms tightening around her. “Write to me.”

“I will,” she promised, her voice breaking as she pulled away, taking one last look at him before turning to run back toward her mother’s voice.

Aemond stood frozen beneath the weirwood tree, his fists clenched at his sides, his heart shattering as he watched her go.

With one last look, Valaena turned and ran back toward the Keep.

Aemond remained by the weirwood tree, standing alone as he watched her disappear from sight.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, falling into the grass below.

Aemond sat cross-legged in the small hollow beneath the bush in the gods wood, Valaena’s hiding spot.

It was his refuge now, the only place where he felt close to her. The faint rustle of leaves and the soft chirping of birds surrounded him, but all his focus was on the crinkled parchment in his hands, her familiar handwriting filling the page.

He had read the letter so many times that he knew it by heart, but still, he traced each line as if committing it to memory anew.

Her words were a balm to the ache in his chest. She missed him, she said, just as much as he missed her.

But her life on Dragonstone sounded better, freer.

There are no whispers here, no pointing fingers or cruel laughter as I pass. It is... peaceful. I think you would like it, Aemond. The air smells of salt and the sea, and when the sun sets, the world looks like it’s made of fire and blood and the library is filled with ancient books and scrolls from old Valyria.

He smiled faintly at her description, imagining her sitting by the sea, her dark hair whipped by the wind, the light of the setting sun casting her in hues of crimson and gold.

But then his smile faltered, and the ache in his chest deepened. She was so far away.

But one letter had arrived just days ago that had shaken him from his melancholy. It was different. Brimming with excitement, the words practically leapt off the page:

Aemond, you won’t believe it! I have my dragon at last!

His heart had raced as he read those words, a mixture of elation and jealousy coursing through him.

Silverwing! She is mine now. The dragon keepers said she was unclaimed for so long, but when I approached her, she came to me without hesitation. She is beautiful, Aemond, with shining silver scales and the gentlest eyes I have ever seen. They say she is the gentlest of all dragons, and I believe it. When I am with her, I feel… whole.

Aemond couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy, though he quickly pushed it aside. Silverwing.

The dragon of Queen Alysanne, one of the most revered dragons in Targaryen history. Of course, Valaena would be the one to claim her.

There was no other dragon in the world more suited to her, no bond more fitting than the one they shared.

He read the next part again, the words filling him with hope:

I know you will claim your dragon too, Aemond. I am certain of it. Perhaps, like me, your dragon waits for you somewhere out there, ready to find you when the time is right.

Her faith in him stirred something deep within his chest. He could almost hear her voice, warm and unwavering, soothing the insecurities that had plagued him for so long.

If Valaena believed he could claim a dragon, then perhaps he could.

For now, he found joy in her triumph. He was proud of her—so proud he thought his heart might burst with it. She had done what he still had yet to do, and she had found her place in the world.

But still, he missed her terribly. The letters were his lifeline, and as he folded the parchment carefully and tucked it into the small pouch he kept at his side.

Leaning back, Aemond looked up through the branches at the sky, his mind filled with images of Silverwing and Valaena soaring together above the waves of Dragonstone.

The thought brought him comfort, and for the first time in weeks, he smiled—a true, genuine smile.

Someday, he promised himself. Someday he would claim his own dragon, and he would join her in the skies.

But for now, her happiness was enough.

Aemond leaned against the rain-specked window of his cabin, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of gray-blue sea.

The ship’s rhythmic creaking and the distant crash of waves filled the air, but he barely noticed.

His thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by the one person who had occupied his heart and mind since the day she had left the Red Keep—Valaena.

He let out a soft sigh, his fingers idly tracing the glass. Somewhere ahead, past the horizon, she was waiting.

They had written to one another faithfully, sharing every detail of their lives and thoughts, but letters could only go so far. He yearned to see her again, to hear her voice, and to feel the warmth of her presence.

Aemond’s lips twitched into a small smile as he thought of her, but guilt tugged at him immediately. They were sailing to Driftmark for a funeral—a solemn occasion, a time for mourning.

Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had lost their daughter, and his duty was to offer respect and condolences. Yet, no matter how he tried, his heart thrummed with excitement at the prospect of seeing Valaena again.

He closed his eye and rested his forehead against the window. Sunfyre and Dreamfyre flew in graceful arcs alongside the ship, their powerful wings cutting through the sky.

Normally, the sight of dragons in flight would have captivated him, but not today.

Today, his mind was filled with Valaena.

When the announcement came that Driftmark was on the horizon, Aemond was one of the first to ascend to the deck. He stood at the bow of the ship, gripping the railing tightly as he stared out into the distance.

The imposing cliffs of Driftmark loomed closer, and the towering structure of High Tide came into view, its stones gleaming under the faint sunlight.

Sunfyre and Dreamfyre roared as they soared ahead, joining the dragons already circling Driftmark—Syrax, Meleys, and Caraxes.

But then, among them, he spotted her—Silverwing.

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat. She was even more magnificent than he had imagined.

Her scales shimmered like molten silver, catching the sunlight as she glided effortlessly through the sky, she was larger than the other dragons.

For a moment, he could only stare, mesmerized by the beauty and grace, of the hundred year old dragon.

But it wasn’t just Silverwing, it was Valaena. She would be there, so close now, just beyond the horizon.

“Just a little while longer,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible over the wind and waves.

As the ship drew nearer to Driftmark, Aemond stood resolute, his eyes never leaving the sight of Silverwing.

The anticipation burned in his chest, mingling with a thousand unspoken words and a longing he could scarcely contain.

Soon. Soon, they would be together again.

All throughout the funeral, Aemond’s gaze found its way to Valaena. She stood with her brothers, her head bowed, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her saddened face. She looked so small, huddled between Jace and Luke, her hands clasped tightly before her.

Aemond’s heart ached to see her like this, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

The sombre words spoken by Vaemond, the weeping of loved ones, even the low roar of the waves against Driftmark’s cliffs faded to a dull hum in his ears.

All he could focus on was her—the tilt of her chin, the way she fidgeted with her fingers, the faint sheen of tears in her eyes.

When the funeral came to an end, Aemond found her standing alone by the water’s edge. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, painting the sea in hues of amber and crimson.

Her arms were crossed, and she stared out across the waves, her expression distant.

He approached her cautiously, his footsteps muffled by the damp earth. When he stopped beside her, Valaena turned her head slightly and looked at him.

Without a word, she reached out and took his hand, her fingers cool but firm as she squeezed gently.

“I—I’m sorry about your aunt,” Aemond said, his voice soft but sincere.

Valaena nodded, her gaze returning to the water. “Thank you,” she whispered as she leaned her head against his shoulder, seeking comfort in his quiet presence.

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the only sound the gentle lapping of the tide.

But then, a mournful cry split the air, low and resonant, echoing across the cliffs and stirring the quiet.

Aemond’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the sky. A shadow passed through the clouds, vast and imposing, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Vhagar,” Valaena said softly, her voice tinged with awe.

Aemond nodded, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched the great dragon emerge from the cover of the clouds, her wings blotting out the light as she circled high above. “She is without a rider now,” he murmured.

“I know,” Valaena replied, her voice heavy with the weight of what that meant.

Before either could say more, Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the air. “Valaena, Jace, Luke—it’s time to go to bed.”

Valaena turned, her brow furrowing. “But, Mother—”

Rhaenyra’s attention was elsewhere, her gaze fixed on Daemon as he lingered near the pyre.

Without looking back at her daughter, she repeated firmly, “Bed. Now.”

Valaena sighed, knowing better than to argue. She glanced up at Aemond, her reluctance plain on her face.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, releasing his hand and retreating towards the keep with her brothers.

Aemond watched her go, the warmth of her touch still lingering on his skin.

As she disappeared into the shadows of High Tide, he turned his attention back to the sky.

Vhagar’s massive form was still circling above, her cries reverberating through his chest.

He took a deep, steadying breath, his heart swelling with a mix of fear and determination.

This was his chance.

If Valaena could find her dragon, so could he.

Without another thought, Aemond descended the stone steps, his footsteps resolute as he disappeared in search of Vhagar.

Aemond returned to High Tide, his heart soaring higher than it ever had. Vhagar was his.

The largest, oldest dragon in the world had accepted him, and their flight together had been nothing short of breathtaking.

The new bond thrummed in his chest, warm and vibrant, and he felt invincible, as if the entire world had shifted into place. He couldn’t wait to tell Valaena—she’d be so proud of him.

But his elation was short-lived. As he made his way back through the castle, he was ambushed.

Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena appeared from the shadows, their faces contorted with rage.

"You stole her!" Rhaena shrieked, her voice breaking with grief. Tears streamed down her face. "Vhagar was mine to claim!"

Aemond opened his mouth to defend himself, but before he could speak, the four of them lunged at him.

Fists rained down on him, their collective fury overwhelming him. He tried to shield himself, but it was too much.

Suddenly, a new voice screamed, “Stop it!”

Valaena came racing toward them, her dark hair flying as she threw herself into the fray. She grabbed Baela and Rhaena, pulling them off Aemond.

“Leave him alone!” she cried, her voice breaking with desperation.

Baela snarled and elbowed Valaena in the side of the head, sending her staggering backward.

Valaena stumbled, her vision swimming, and leaned against the wall for support.

Jace grabbed Aemond, pinning him to the ground. Aemond, panting and bloodied, managed to pick up a rock and swing it, connecting with Jace’s head and knocking him down.

Luke rushed forward, and Aemond punched him square in the face, the crack of his nose breaking echoing in the night and he fell back with a whimper, clutching his face.

"You’ll die screaming in flames, just like your father did," Aemond snarled, his voice dripping with venom.

“My father’s still alive!” Luke whimpered, tears mixing with the blood running down his face.

Aemond loomed over him, his chest heaving. “He doesn’t know, does he? Lord Strong.”

The words cut through the air like a knife. Jace, enraged, pulled a blade from his sleeve and lunged at Aemond.

Aemond kicked him to the ground, the rock still in his hand, raised high above his head.

But then, a soft, trembling voice broke through his fury.

“Aemond”

He froze. He turned his head and saw Valaena, leaning against the wall, her hand pressed to the side of her head where Baela had struck her.

Her wide, tear-filled eyes pleaded with him, her voice raw with emotion.

His anger drained away, replaced by a deep concern for her. He dropped the rock, taking a step toward her.

“Are you hurt?” he muttered, his voice soft, almost breaking.

Valaena opened her mouth to respond, but Jace, taking advantage of the moment, threw a handful of sand into Aemond’s face.

Blinded, Aemond staggered back, wiping at his eyes, when Luke lunged forward.

The blade slashed across Aemond’s face, and he screamed, the pain white-hot as blood began to pour from the wound.

“AEMOND!” Valaena screamed, her voice high and panicked.

She rushed to him, dropping to her knees beside him. Tearing strips from her nightgown, she pressed the cotton to his face, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Her hands trembled as she worked, her face pale with horror.

“V-Valaena. I-I-” stuttered Luke, his hand still clutching the blade.

“LUKE. WHAT DID YOU DO?!” screamed Valaena, her voice shaking with rage and despair.

Aemond then whimpered her name, his voice weak, and she immediately took his hand in hers.

“Iksan lēda ao,” Valaena whispered. (I’m with you)

The sound of armoured footsteps broke the moment as Lord Commander Westerling and several members of the Kings guard rushed onto the scene, their shouts of alarm ringing through the air.

Valaena held onto Aemond’s hand tightly, her body trembling as she looked up at the guards. “Help him! Please!” she cried, her voice breaking.

The chaos swirled around them, but all Aemond could focus on was the warmth of Valaena’s hand in his, her whispered reassurances grounding him as the world seemed to fall apart.

The room was dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the high window.

Aemond lay motionless on the bed, the left side of his face swathed in thick bandages. Pain radiated from the wound—a constant, throbbing reminder of what had been taken from him.

Tears slipped from the corner of his right eye, silently trailing down his cheek as he stared at the ceiling.

His world was half gone, lost to the darkness where his left eye once was. Now he was deformed, a scarred monster who would forever bear the mark of last night.

But worse than the physical pain was the ache in his chest, the unbearable weight of his father’s indifference.

Viserys had never truly cared for him. Not for Aegon, Helaena, or Daeron either.

His father’s love had always been reserved for one—Rhaenyra, his precious firstborn.

Even as Aemond sat in agony before the fire, his face being stitched back together, his father’s attention had been consumed by Rhaenyra.

The accusations, the demands for apologies, the placating of her Strong bastards.

That was all that mattered to Viserys. Not his son, who had lost an eye.

Aemond’s throat tightened at the memory of the hall. The arguments, the chaos, the raging voices, and the utter dismissal of what he had endured.

Even Valaena’s small, determined voice had been drowned out in the tumult. She had valiantly tried to defend him, declaring that Vhagar was not some possession to be inherited, but a creature of free will who had chosen him.

Her words had meant the world to him, but they had been brushed aside like nothing.

Viserys had demanded apologies. Reconciliation and gestures of goodwill.

None of it mattered.

Only Alicent and Valaena had stood by him. His mother had demanded justice, her fury manifesting in the blade she had wielded against Rhaenyra and her brood.

Still, Aemond had tried to be brave. He had stood tall in the Hall of Nine, declaring, “Do not mourn me, Mother. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

It had been true, and yet the truth did little to comfort him now.

The divide in their family had widened, and Aemond knew where the lines had been drawn. He was on one side, and Valaena was on the other.

The thought of being apart from her—truly apart—twisted the knife in his heart.

The soft creak of a door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Aemond turned his head slightly, just enough to see a familiar figure slipping into the room.

“Valaena,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I don’t have long,” she said softly, closing the door behind her, “but I had to check on you.”

He turned his face away from her, his voice bitter as he muttered, “You shouldn’t be here. Leave me be.”

Valaena crossed the room and knelt beside his bed. “I will never leave you, Aemond.”

“You should.” His voice cracked. “You’ll do well to stay away from me. I’m nothing now. Just a scarred monster.”

Valaena reached out and took his hand. “You’re not a monster,” she said firmly. “You’re brave. And that scar—it shows you’re a survivor. Vhagar chose you because she saw your strength.”

Aemond hesitated, then slowly turned his face toward her. His visible eye glistened with unshed tears. “How can you stand to look at me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Valaena smiled gently, her eyes soft. “Because you’re my Aemond. And you always will be.”

Her words unravelled something inside him, and his lips trembled as he smiled faintly. “You saw what happened last night,” he said. “How can we-how can we still be friends after this?”

Valaena’s hand tightened around his. “Because we’re more to each other than that.”

Aemond's chest ached at her words, a mixture of relief and longing. “I don’t want to be alone again,” he admitted quietly.

“You’ll never be alone,” she whispered. “I will always be there for you.”

Valaena leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It was soft and lingering, her warmth melting through his pain.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were tinged with pink, but she held his gaze, steady and unwavering.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “For defending me.”

“It’s okay,” she replied softly.

Aemond then let out a huff of laughter, a shadow of his usual confidence returning. “I did it,” he said. “I claimed the greatest dragon alive.”

Valaena’s face lit up with a small smile. “You did. I’m so proud of you-”

Her words struck something deep within him, a warmth stirring in his chest that he hadn’t felt before. No one had ever said they were proud of him—not like this.

It filled him with a quiet joy, a sense of belonging he’d never known. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly seen.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps and voices in the corridor drew their attention.

Valaena glanced toward the door, her expression regretful.

“I think I have to go. I’m not sure your mother would like me being in here.”

Aemond nodded, his heart sinking. “You’ll still write to me, won’t you?”

“I will,” she promised.

Before leaving, she pressed another kiss to his lips, fleeting but full of feeling.

Then she slipped out of the room, leaving Aemond alone once more. But this time, the emptiness didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

She was still with him, in her own way. And that was enough. For now.

Valaena sat in her chambers, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her gown as she stared out the window. The sea breeze ruffled the curtains, but she barely noticed.

It had been weeks since she last heard from Aemond, and her worry had grown unbearable.

The thought that he might no longer want to be her friend gnawed at her heart, leaving her feeling hollow and uncertain.

A soft knock at the door broke her reverie. She shot up from her seat, her chest tightening with anticipation.

“Come in!” she called, her voice breathless.

Maester Gerardys entered, his robes swaying as he carried a sealed letter in his hands. “A letter for you, Princess,” he said with a warm smile.

Valaena practically darted across the room, taking the letter from him with trembling hands. “Thank you, Maester”

“It is my pleasure, Princess,” he said with a slight bow. “When you have a response, come and find me in my chambers, and I will see to its delivery.”

“I will,” she promised, her voice steady despite her pounding heart.

The Maester left, and Valaena closed the door, turning the letter over in her hands. She recognized Aemond’s handwriting immediately, though it was not as neat as usual.

Anxiety twisted in her chest as she carefully broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

Her eyes scanned the words, her heart sinking with every line.

Aemond’s neat script had turned to a shaky scrawl.

He apologized for the delay, explaining that he had suffered a bad infection where his missing eye had been.

The Maesters had eventually been forced to remove the eyelid, leaving the wound even more exposed and painful, and his scar itchy.

He wrote that he had spent most of the past weeks dosed on milk of the poppy, drifting in and out of consciousness, and that his recovery was still slow and excruciating.

He also mentioned the headaches that plagued him now—sharp, debilitating pains that made even the smallest movements unbearable.

But amidst the pain and despair, he thanked her for the handkerchief she had stitched for him, saying he treasured it deeply.

Valaena’s hands trembled as she lowered the letter, pressing it to her chest.

Tears pricked her eyes as she thought of him enduring such agony. She wanted nothing more than to be there, to sit by his side and soothe his pain.

Her mind raced as she clutched the letter. There had to be something she could do.

Perhaps Maester Gerardys could create a salve to help with his scar, or at least provide some comfort.

If not, maybe there was something in Dragonstone’s extensive library—a book, a recipe, anything that could offer a remedy for his pain and headaches.

Yes, that’s what she would do. She would go to the library and find answers.

Valaena carefully folded the letter and slipped it into her special hiding place beneath her bed—a small box where she kept Aemond’s letters and other treasures she held dear.

Then she hurried to the door, determined to help him.

As she stepped into the corridor, she almost collided with Luke, who was running toward her, grinning.

“Valaena! Come play with me!” he said, his voice full of eagerness.

She froze, her expression hardening. “No,” she said coldly, sidestepping him.

Luke’s face fell. “Why not?”

“I don’t want to,” she said sharply, not stopping to explain.

The truth was, she couldn’t look at him without seeing Aemond’s face—the blood, the pain, the tears.

Luke was her little brother, and a part of her still loved and cared for him, but the anger she felt toward him had not yet faded.

She hated him for what he had done, for the harm he had caused Aemond, who had done nothing to deserve it.

And though she knew forgiveness was supposed to come in time, she wasn’t sure it ever would.

Pushing past Luke, she hurried toward the library, leaving him behind with his crestfallen expression.

Her focus now was Aemond. She would find something—anything—that could ease his suffering.

He needed her, and she would not fail him.

TBC

[followingtheladyofthesacredflame]

Hi I’m a new follower of Brigid, what things are sacred to her - animals, crystals, plants ect

Wikipedia came up with the birch tree being sacred to her but other sources have the oak

If you also have any books/info sources where I can learn more about her I’d love to hear your reccomendations

Hello, welcome to the hearth! So, what I know about Brigid, I've learned from books, blogs, videos, and historical sources. I'll list some of those first so you can do some deep diving yourself:

Brigid: History, Mystery, and Magick of the Celtic Goddess by Courtney Weber (available through Hoopla via the public library system if you're in the US, available through her Etsy shop as well) - this was written by a self-appointed priestess of Brigid practicing in Ireland and the US.

The House Witch by Arin Hiscock-Murphy and The Kitchen Witch by Skye Alexander (both also available through Hoopla I believe and most places books are sold) both have brief bios of Brigid and some tips for working with her as a hearth goddess - take these with a slight grain of salt as they have some Wiccan influence.

Lots of books of Irish folklore include some stories of the Tuatha de Danann, which are the gods of Ireland. There's also some great stories in Scottish and Welsh folklore that you can look into - try The Mabinogion for more information about her Welsh pantheon.

Brigid's Wiki has some great sources at the bottom to jump to.

A profile of the Lady from Druidry.org - take this with a mild grain of salt.

History Cooperative's entry on Brigid - this focuses a lot on her Spring goddess aspect.

Encyclopedia Britannica's entry about Brigid (using the Scottish spelling, Brigit) has some solid base info.

A quick and easy video overview

A look at the Welsh pantheon of which Brigid (in Cymru, Braid) is a part

I don't have a specific source for this, but you might also look into St. Brigid of Kildare, an Irish saint who led a convent centered on a site holy to the goddess Brigid and is popularly interpreted as either a priestess of Brigid who carried her practice in secret through the conversion of Ireland or a version of the goddess herself accepted as a folk saint by practitioners who "converted" to save themselves from Christian "missionaries."

Obviously this isn't everything I've read/looked at, but it's a pretty good starter set of information if you're just starting working with her and not sure what aspects of Brigid you'd like to work with. So now, I'll share what I interpret as her symbols and associations, then what working with her looks like for me. Your experience will probably be different, and that's good! Deity relationships are personal and up to what you need them to be. Hope this helps!

My interpretation of Brigid's symbology:

Basic domain/"Goddess of":

Fire, inspiration, creative works (poetry especially)

Healing, wells, flowing/healing water

The forge, handicrafts (weaving, knitting, crochet, etc.)

Springtime, fertility, rebirth

Associated holidays:

Imbolc (February 1-2)

Associated colors:

Yellow

Orange

Gold

White

Associated animals:

Cows

Sheep

Domesticated animals/livestock generally

Associated herbs/gems:

Marigolds

Sunflowers

Oaks/acorns

Citrine

Red Jasper

Associated food/drinks:

Bread

Wheat

Water

Mead

Milk

Honey

Spiced things - apple cider, cinnamon rolls, etc.

What working with Brigid looks like for me:

Brigid is a motherly figure to work with, but in a more "tough love" sense than some other mother figures. She's willing to work with you and help you grow, but boy will she tell you when you fuck up! I've found working with her to be comforting and encouraging; she makes me feel confident in myself and my abilities and she pushes me to be a better witch, a better mother, and a better person generally.

You don't have to worship Brigid as the only deity in your work, either. In my practice, I've found she gets along well with the Virgin Mary and is cordial with Lady Minerva. She also seems to get on well with Jesus and the Abrahamic God, though she doesn't really get involved with those outside her pantheon.

I've found that the best ways of communicating with Brigid are through tarot, ogham, and astragalomancy (dice). She likes offerings of things you've made - bread you baked, spice mixes you put together, things you've crocheted or knitted or woven or sewn. She also loves tea - making a cup and sharing it with her is a great way to venerate her! I feel her presence as a warmth, like a fire in my chest and a warm blanket over my shoulders. She likes working with me in kitchen witchery and workings related to creativity, inspiration, luck, and healing. I keep space for her in my main altar and my kitchen altar, though I think if she had to choose, she'd prefer to be venerated in a kitchen altar.

[totallylost4you]

KAYLOR (Karlie + Taylor) BLOG INDEX Part 1

Kaylor: They were rommates | DvF Yacht - Karl's bday | K talks about T - 308 weeks | Normal balanced grounded life | The phoenix has risen | Messy Timelines | Derek loves Gracie | Ice Spice with Karlie cover | Cara likes Kaylor comedian | Same Friends | Fresh out the Slammer | Karlie Kloss Street | Lottery Ticket | Atticus | Miss Americana 38:38

Eras Tour: Florida with Flo | Opening&Closing = Same | Vienna | The Archer x Question...? | Kaylor Ufo | Betty | Kaylor reunion | New Romantics | Ivy | Daylight | Folklore cabin | Delicate Giraffe | Hits Different | Girl in Red+Taylor | 👇 MORE

Eras Tour: Question...? | Truman Show Theory | Toxic fans | Movie: Lgbt+ moments | All of the Girls | Bejeweled Female hands | Catching Fire Theory | Illicit Affair Portrait of a Lady on Fire | Seven | Mastermind

Kaylor: Hudson Valley | Karlie Dorothea Kloss | VOGUE: Tay dating Karlie | 1989 Beach | Carolina Herrera 2023 | Tour clock+Paris | "on good terms" | Betty Rainbow guitar | Daisy Week | King of my heart puzzle | Karma+MoMA | Mini Me Piano | The Lakes+3 years | VOGUE Karlie Bday | 1989 Color Teal | Oscar de la Renta | Atticus - the poet | Speak Now Snowglobe | Karlie's L.A. show | Karlie+Taylor: 1, 2, 3 | Kaylor Daisy | April 29 | Karlie & Taylor dating girls? | Same hair dryer for pets | Taylor can be invisible with Karlie | Karlie's doll LOVER house | Kaylor Fights or Break-Ups | Galentine's Day | Same Lavender Hand Spray | Tea time | Karma: Moon & Saturn | Karlie+Austin 2018 | VSFS Watch Party | Japan | London | Willow / Begin Again | This dorm was once a madhouse | Carolina Herrera | Picture me in the trees | I know Places

>> Part 2 includes all Gaylor postings

And other blog posts from other Gaylors

[imomisoplays]

Jamaican Jerk Chicken

Hi tombler!

Before we begin with today’s recipe, let me introduce you to Vienna Ito. She lives in the suburban area in Willow Creek with her husband and son. Also, if her last name sounds familiar… Yes, Vienna is the daughter of your local Mt. Komorebi hottie Kiyoshi Ito! We’ll get to see more of Vienna’s extended family as I explore more food CCs. Vienna’s a foodie and loves cooking -- two things that’s beneficial to her career in Food Critics. Matter fact, Vienna wants to try foods around the world and that’s why were here!

Today we’re trying Jamaican jerk chicken. Jerk is a style of cooking native to Jamaica, in which the meat is dry-rubbed or marinated with a hot spice mixture called the jerk spice. This CC is made by @robinksimblr (click here to download the recipe). I found out their CCs recently and can't wait to try other recipes! Please be aware that you need to download Robin's Food Enabler in order for the recipes to appear in your game.

Now, shall we begin?

Only the freshest ingredients in this kitchen! Vienna is mixing the ingredients for the jerk spice: onion, ginger, garlic, thyme, bay leaves, cloves, and of course -- scotch bonnet peppers!

Vienna has marinated the chicken off camera and left it in the fridge for the spices to really penetrate the chicken. The authentic way to cook jerk chicken is by grilling it over wood fire, but for Vienna, the oven would have to do.

A little bit off the topic but I recently renovated Vienna’s kitchen and I love how it looks! Vienna’s favorite colors are blue and grey, but I just couldn’t justify making a blue kitchen because the rest of her house is very modern and minimalist. Overall, I like the touch of bronze in her rather monochromatic kitchen.

Jerk chicken is served alongside rice and peas, which is made with rice and red kidney beans (the peas). As a native Komorebi-go, Vienna uses chopstick for every possible food combinations -- please do excuse her choice of utensil. They might need to get used to the spiciness level, but Vienna and her son agrees that jerk seasoning is their cup of tea!

‘Til next time, dag dag!

P.S. There is a faux-chicken version included in the CC package, but there's no difference in either the cooking process and overall appearance beside the version being vegan-friendly. P.S.S. History and recipe details are taken from this article, this article and this Wikipedia page.

Imomiso’s note: This post is originally posted on the now deleted blog.

[capricioussun]

I got this template from another blog on how you skeletons would react to meeting new people, feel free to change up the categories!

Immediately overly friendly:

So visibly anxious you think they might puke:

Acts like a normal person:

Showboating and bragging:

“oh this guy might actually kill me”:

Does not leave the house or meet new people:

Too weird to fit into any of the other categories:

I’m enjoying theses asks, it’s helping me understand ur characters more

How the skeletons would react to meeting new people

Immediately overly friendly: Rus, Berry, Coal, Dove, and Lace

So visibly anxious you think they might puke: Spice

Awkward in that way where neither party can tell if they're the one making it weird: Edge, Clover, and Anthias

Acts like a normal person: Stretch, Blue, Pup, Void, Perp, Hawk, Aurigae, Cire, Honey, Uno, and Sky

Acts like a normal person (in a way that feels distinctly not normal): Sans, Copper, Gold, Eclipse, AR, Luck, Cue, Boss, Ara, Cerulean, and Heartfell Sans

Showboating and bragging: Cherry, Pictoris, Antares, Calcine, and Heartfell Papyrus

“oh this guy might actually kill me”: Red, Patch, Haze, Snare, Boötes, Ice, Pin, Raviel, and Castor

Does not leave the house or meet new people: Ghost, Dusk, Rust, and Dos

Almost normal but he keeps calling them "mortal" and puts out weird vibes: Elester

Also acting like a normal person here is relative. As normal as any Sans or Papyrus can be <3

[devout-khajiit]

*crashes into your ask box again* I get the feeling that we're both gonna keep flooding each other's inboxes over and over again, lmao.

When it comes to the readings you give on your reading blog, is there a particular format you follow? I'm sure you've seen my "format" on my own reading blog...

Do you associate your primary guides/entities with any particular colors, smells, or tastes?

If you feel comfortable sharing, what's the weirdest thing you've given as an offering or used in a spell?

What are some of your favorite tools for spell work?

~Jasper

I'm not at all against you flooding my inbox, please feel free to continue.

When it comes to the readings you give on your reading blog, is there a particular format you follow? I'm sure you've seen my "format" on my own reading blog...

I love being able to describe what a card means, because I find that helps a person connect further to the reading if they have a particular grasp of the basics of what I'm getting at. Plus, if they're unfamiliar with the deck, reading style, what have you, it helps bridge that gap between me as the reader and them as the querent. It's why I gave all that extra "fluff" about what the Lenormand cards meant during the Houses portion. Pain in the ass to do all of that, but I feel it's necessary for my reading format.

From there, I go into what I feel the reading is trying to get at. This is where the technique really begins to vary from reading to reading, with some requiring me to go back a few steps to revisit an old idea. I don't particularly show it on the blog, but my thought process generally has a few backtracks to go "Okay, but also this and this and this".

Do you associate your primary guides/entities with any particular colors, smells, or tastes?

Hmm. I associate Lucifer with "royal" colors like a deep purple, but also red, gold, and specifically emerald green (because Their eyes have always been an emerald green when presenting Themself to me). I associate Them with the varied smells of perfume and colognes. No tastes, though.

Hermaeus Mora has always been a dark, murky, "dirty water" kinda green. Like the green of a lake filled to the brim with algae. For smells, of paper and books. I also associate It with the feeling of paper on the skin.

Molag Bal is associated with a deep, crimson, bloody red. No particular smells or tastes for Him.

Sheogorath of course with purple and gold, but also red because of the Skyrim outfit. But also the yellow of cheese. Of course, cheese as a taste and as a smell go to Sheogorath; but also, interestingly, the smell of wine. I've never tasted wine (I don't drink by choice and by the curse of meds that alcohol can negatively affect), so I can't really associate that with Them.

Sithis is associated with the specific colors seen on the stained glass in the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary in the Skyrim game. Sithis has never particularly brought smells to me in terms of clair- skills so nothing there, same for taste.

I can't think of anybody else I'd particularly call a "primary guide" at the moment. I should really make myself a proper list, because I feel like I'm forgetting someone.

If you feel comfortable sharing, what's the weirdest thing you've given as an offering or used in a spell?

Hmm. I usually offer up pretty normal stuff physically, but it's when we get into my written or digital offerings that it gets a bit crazy. There's of course more normal stuff like pictures of animals associated with them and stuff like that.

I think the oddest, because I really don't stray far, is this one picture of Sheogorath dressed as a pimp to Sheogorath. Xhe found it pretty funny so I wasn't smote that day. If I could re-find it, I would.

What are some of your favorite tools for spell work?

I love herbs and spices as tools for the most part. All my spells use at least one herb or spice. I also love sigils as spell tools.

My spells really aren't very complex tool-wise, because I'm actually further behind on the magic trail than I am on the pagan trail. There's a lot I need to learn in terms of things like theory crafting and correspondences and all that. So I just stick to what I know for safety sake.

But, I do use a hairpin as a wand. And a little tiny scepter as a wand.

I'm always happy to talk about my craft, my practice, and my beliefs, so feel free to keep 'em coming as long as you wish!

[aurorabayrpg]

we wanted to thank everyone who submitted their characters for this! we had a total of 60 pairings!

please see the list below of every character who signed up with their likes, and below that will be who they're paired with! gifts can begun being sent today until january 5th. if any gifts aren't recieved by then, please let us know! and please make sure your character's submit box is open! along with a submission, a gift may also be posted on your blog and tagging the recipient, or even a thread can be made of the gifting! just be sure to use ab.secretsanta for your posts!

character submissions:

Angel Rojas @firefighterrojas Whiskey, indoor plants, novelty socks and american football

Ann Thompson @mrsmamathompson Anything homemade, wine, loves when a gift means something

Asher Ortiz @heyits-asher Herb, longboard or surf supplies, tall socks, pizza

Aurelia Cavendish @cavenshh Fashion, wine, makeup, loves when things look expensive and probably aren’t

Axel Mathis @axel-mathis Coffee, music, and anything home made.

Basilio Aaragon @basaaragon Donations to any queer youth groups/food banks/women's shelters and pens & notebooks since he's always losing his.

Benjamin Hyun @benj-hyun Star Wars, bourbon, basketball

Blake Michaels @blake-michaels Watercolor supplies, Stanley cups, running gear

Camille Reese @ithinkitscami Plants, earrings, and gift cards

Camryn Hendricks @camryn-hendricks candles, hiking supplies, hot yoga

Caroline Kelly @thecarolinexkelly whiskey, records/anything music related, incense, plants

Castillo Aaragon @castillo-aargon Coffee, old books, old man shit

Celia Baker @celia-baker musical theatre, sewing stuff, maximalism decor, pastels, fun sweaters

Emerson Cassidy @emersonxcassidy classic literature, teas, candles, doesn’t really drink

Evangeline Evans @msevangeline-evans dark academia, books, tea, dark cottage core

Evie Watson @eviexwatson journals, art supplies, tea, anything rock related.

Finn Brooks @finn-brooks books (historical and non-fiction), 80s classic rock, odd trinkets

Fletcher Bailey @fletcher-bailey homemade things, I.e. knitted hats or home baked cookies, practical house items, small spice garden for indoors

Gillian Liang @thegillyxliang classic rock, the x-files, anything funky/psychedelic, gummies of the adult variety

Holland Bright @hollandbrights anything art related, old post cards, and candles that aren't floral scented. she loves odd thrift finds.

Imani Lihn @xoimani candy, trying to get into reading more, anything cutesy

Iris Alderidge @theirisxalderidge anything fashion, red wine, gold jewelry, perfume (chanel, versace, anything expensive)

Isla Dubois @itsisla-dubois pink, rose gold jewelry, modern rococo style, ballet

Jace Bergeron @jaceberg coffee, board games, cookbooks, sweet treats, legos & v-bucks

Jackson Ellie @jacksonxellis anything surfing related, weed, dog toys/clothing for his dog, gag gifts

Jas Russell @jasrussell books, vinyls, anything pistachio flavoured

Juniper Soo @juniper-soo pastel witchy items, anything moon and stars, mod inspired pieces, pop art jewelry

Kalina Slater-Horne @screamqueen-slater spooky things, cryptids, true crime, Halloween stuff, horror movies she doesn’t really like anything to do with cooking cause she can’t do it.

Kerem Mueller @keremms Anything audio, not a big drinker, loves music

Kieran Keene @kierankeane crystals, crystals, more crystals, vapes, weed

Layne Dell @layne-dell music, art, cooking, wine.

Linnea Lorenzo @linnea-lorenzo music, things she can use for her son Nico, dance supplies, candles, stuffed animals, blankets, cozy things

Liza Evans @thelizaxevans loves baking/anything kitchen-y, vanilla scented things, anything pink/florally, or anything for her daughter (or her current pregnancy craving of gummy candy)

Lorelai Lewis @lorelailewis designer perfume, korean skincare, charlotte tilbury make-up and band tee's

Lucinda Caldwell @thelucexcaldwell loves anything bright and whimsical, likes drinking and smoking and partying, tattoos, coffee,

Malakai Lomas @kailomas surfer, loves anything to do with his hair, probably be happy with coupons for food

Mariana Velasco @marivelasc makeup, jewelry, heart felt made presents even if it’s not a like of hers, she’ll keep it

Maverick Liu @maverick-liu travel gear, rings and bracelets, stuff for his turtle (Barturtlemew), work out gear

Maxwell Carson @maxcarson books, tools, fidget toys, hats, doesn't drink that much

Mei Lian Huang @themeixhuang tea, candles, cardigans, wine, flower seeds, toy gardening supplies for her daughter

Nelson Quinn @the-nelson-quinn alcohol, expensive looking things, clothes, coffee, sunglasses, movies, he doesn’t really dislike anything and is open to anything creative too

Noah Atwood @noah-atwood d&d dice sets, burger joints, Pokémon Go, blankets or snuggies

Noelle Driscoll @noellexdriscoll crochet, food, cats

Oriana Perez @orianacperez skin care, hair care, makeup, books, perfume. she LOVES a good spa day.

Paxton Brady @paxton-brady art supplies, frog-themed figurines or stickers or the like, cozy clothes (beanies, slippers, fuzzy socks)

Peyton Dyer @pytndyer books

Priya Desai @priyaxdesai anything sea salt scented, wine, gold accessories, planners or anything to help her get her life together

Ramsey Rivera @missxrivera fashion, art supplies, accessories, jewelry, trinkets and things to hold trinkets, tea, and vintage aesthetics she doesn’t really like expensive things

Robin Santos @robinsantos novelty mugs, coffee and vinyls

Rowan Dyer @lonelyhcart candles, twizzlers, soft blankets, wine & anything ford tamblyn.

Samuel Kane @samucl-kane plant supplies, cute and simple decor, Driftwood coffee

Sterling Levin @sterlingxlevin painting, surfing, animals, clothes, jewelry

Violet Tamblyn @vi-tamblyn sparkles, y2k, makeup, graphic tees

Vincent Quinn @vincentquinn disposable camera, film, old postcards, wine, & vinyls

Warner St. James @warnerstjames video games, funko pops, marvel, arcane and 90's fashion

Wes Evans @wesxevans painting, crystals, incense, chess, books, cooking

Willow Thomas @willow-thomas enjoys anything that can be used to create, flowers, sweet scents, funny socks

Zachariah Frost @zachariah-frost art stuff, beanies, wears mainly black and white

Zarina Mari @zarinamcri planners, gel pens, uncrustables, cute jibbitz, & sonny angels

Below is the list of who will be giving a gift to whom:

Angel - Zarina

Ann - Benjamin

Asher - Vincent

Aurelia - Sterling

Axel - Castillo

Basilio - Gillian

Benjamin - Celia

Blake - Warner

Camille - Rowan

Camryn - Linnea

Caroline - Peyton

Castillo - Mei

Celia - Kerem

Emerson - Kai

Evangeline - Finn

Evie - Lorelai

Finn - Ann

Fletcher - Axel

Gillian - Oriana

Holland - Noelle

Imani - Paxton

Iris - Robin

Isla - Kalina

Jace - Aurelia

Jackson - Iris

Jas - Samuel

Juniper - Maxwell

Kalina - Kieran

Kerem - Liza

Kieran - Willow

Layne - Ramsey

Linnea - Luce

Liza - Isla

Lorelai - Blake

Luce - Imani

Malakai - Basilio

Mariana - Asher

Maverick - Jace

Max - Fletcher

Mei - Nelson

Nelson - Jas

Noah - Wes

Noelle - Layne

Oriana - Evangeline

Paxton - Caroline

Peyton - Zachariah

Priya - Violet

Ramsey - Maverick

Robin - Holland

Rowan - Camryn

Samuel - Evie

Sterling - Noah

Violet - Camille

Vincent - Priya

Warner - Mariana

Wes- Juniper

Willow - Fletcher

Zachariah- Emerson

Zarina - Jackson

[sweet-cuddlebug]

~ Greetings and welcome to my blog ~

♤ About me.

• You can call me Mers, Mercy or Mersi

• My pronouns are they/them/she/her/he/him

• 18 years old

• I'm bisexual

• Also a taurus

• And neurodivergent

♡ About interaction rules.

• Do not interact with this blog if you are LGBTQIAphobic, pedophillic or MAP, exclusionis, racist, ableist. Immature and hatefull in general

• If in some of my posts the information shared is wrong or incomplete, please let me know through comments so I can edit it

• If you felt offended or attacked in any way due to my post, let me know through private messages so we can discuss and resolve the problem or misunderstanding

• You can leave comments with tips to improve my drawings (as long as the comment is respectful and refrains from using bad words)

• You can ask about the content I share, sources of entertainment I know, would watch, or could talk about

• Any question about my personal life will be ignored

• Also, you CAN send requests for me to draw and share, like doodles or something idk (they can be OCs or characters from a medium that you like)

• I have no problems blocking others.

◇ About the content.

• In this blog I will talk (or reblog) and publish fanart about the sources of entertainment that I enjoy

• Accompanied by occasionally talking and publishing drawings of my own OCs

• From time to time I will talk or reblog about content that may be considered political or sensitive, I will try to use tags well to avoid discomfort

♧ About the fanbases I am a part of (or just enjoy) ( "☆" currently a favorite) (this part is so messy im really sorry) (THIS IS DEFINITELY GOING TO BE EDITED)

• Cómics / Webcómics:

☆ Homestuck _ ☆ 13 Cards / 13 Карт (The Land of Kings) _ Crow Strider AU _ Rodney R Rodney _ Heartstopper _ The Little Trashmaid

• Anime:

☆ Mob Psycho 100 _ ☆ Naruto _ Demon Slayer _ Spy X Family _ My Hero Academia (not so much now) _ High Guardian Spice (ironically? (is it even anime?))

• Cartoons Series:

☆ 13 cards / 13 Карт _ ☆ Xiaolin Showdown _ ☆ Adventure Time _ ☆ Hanazuki _ ☆ Danny Phantom _ The Owl House _ Bluey _ Avatar: The Last Airbender _ The Legend Of Korra _ Hazbin Hotel _ Steven Universe _ Villainous _ Final Space _ Rise Of The TNMT _ DuckTales _ Gravity Falls _ Arcane _ Over The Garden Wall _ Monkey Kid _ Invader Zim _ Ok KO Let's Be Heros

• YT series:

Helluva Boss _ Metal Family _ Digital Circus _ Lackadaisy _ Eddsworld

• Movies:

Turning Red _ How to Train Your Dragon _ Kung Fu Panda _ Trolls _ Sound of Freedom

(pretty much any Disney or Pixars movie to be honest, those are the ones I remember right now)

• Musicals:

☆ Epic: The Musical _ Hamilton _ Dear Evan Hansen _ Be More Chill _ Mean Girls _ Six _ Heathers _ Beetlejuice _ Nerdy Prudes Must Die _ The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals _ Ride The Cyclone

• Video Games:

☆ Little Nightmares _ �� Ace Attorney _ Danganronpa _ Saly Face _ Little Missfortune _ Five Nights at Freddy's _ Undertale _ Deltarun _ Night In The Woods _ Detroit: Become Human

• Minecraft Series:

Karmaland (4 & 5) _ Hermitcraft (6 to 10) _ The Lifes Series (Traffic Light Series?) _ OriginsSMP _ QSMP _ DreamSMP

• Books:

Percy Jackson _ Harry Potter

(Ok, technically I don't read many famous books to be part of the fandom, but I usually know what people are talking about)