#silver specked skys

[azurelyy]

Let's see if I've been shadowbanned by tumblr for not posting in forever. Also, let's see if this gets flagged for me not knowing the TOS anymore LOL. I know most of my followers are here for Naruto content and I am so sorry that this fucking vampire elf has taken over my brain so much that he's the first thing I've written about in forever!

Title: A Bloody Affair

WARNINGS: NSFW beneath the cut. Period oral. F!reader. Astarion goes feral. Fem!reader. Established relationship and slight Act II spoilers. This is just a drabble(ish... I got carried away lmao), but I haddddd to. I’m aware this has been done to death (no pun intended).

His vermillion eyes were darker than usual as you all sat around the firelight, enjoying a hot meal after an unusually hard day of travel. Specks of orange flickered in his gaze like shooting stars through Avernus’ red-hot sky. His hands were tightened into leadened fists by his sides, his lips formed together in a thin line. He’s hungry, and he’s not even trying to hide it.

Amused, you tilted your head to the side, exposing the faded bite marks from when you last allowed him to feed on you a few weeks ago.

“Everything alright, Astarion?” You hummed. “You look pale. Well, paler than normal.”

Astarion laughed, a dark and twisted thing that left your stomach in knots. Would you ever learn to stop teasing him? It only ends badly for you. Every. Time.

“Me? Oh, I’m just fine.” His eyes slowly trailed down your body, locking onto your midsection before flicking back to your face. “You, however,” his fangs glistened in the pale moonlight as he smiled. “You look a little… hot. Too close to the fire, perhaps? Your cheeks are absolutely flushed, my dear.”

And they were. Knowing what the two of you had agreed to out on the battlefield earlier. Awaiting the moment everyone else fell into a deep slumber while you had to sit there, your thighs clamped together as thoughts of Astarion’s tongue ravishing at your core filled your head… It was torturous. Worse than anything Loviatar could come up with.

Karlach scoffed and playfully covered her ears. “Guys! No flirting around the bonfire, pleeeease. It’s hard enough I’ve gone so long without touching someone. I can’t sit here listening to you two flirt all night on top of it.”

You laughed and whispered a soft 'sorry' while Astarion merely hummed his acknowledgement. The rest of the evening was a blur, your mind occupied elsewhere entirely. Finally, when the sounds of snores filled the air and the last of the firelight flickered away, you got up from your bedroll and slowly made your way to Astarion’s tent.

The flap was left partially open and you found Astarion fumbling with a book. He looked distracted, almost like he wasn't reading it at all. The moment you got to the tent entrance, his eyes were upon you - dark, hungry, lustful. You smiled, heat creeping its way up your neck and cheeks, as Astarion swiftly closed the book and tossed it aside.

“Don’t tell me I have to invite you in, darling,” he drawled. “Come here.”

He reached his hand out and you took it gently as he guided you to sit down in his lap. He sighed and nosed his way up the side of your neck, gently swiping his tongue along your still-healing fang marks. His arm wrapped around your midsection, pushing your back against his chest. He's cold, and a small shiver snaked its way down the entirety of your spine as he chuckled a low, "Sorry, pet."

Sweet kisses made their way from your neck to your jaw, until Astarion gently nipped at your earlobe, his free hand slowly roamed up and down your body, squeezing and grabbing at your stomach playfully.

You moaned gently, running your fingers through his silver locks. Astarion's breath hitched in his throat and he slid his hand down to your thigh. His arousal poked into your ass and you rocked in his lap gently; teasingly. His hand became more desperate as he grabbed at your thigh, thrusting his hips gently. You turned your head and ghost your lips over his, meeting his gaze.

His tongue clicked against his teeth as he stared at you. You twisted his hair round your index finger and smile up at him wantonly. The two of you hadn't been intimate since his confession a few weeks ago. You have let him feed on you since then, but never initiate anything sexual. You wanted him to do it. Wanted for it to be organic. He was the best thing that had happened to you in a long time, and you wanted him to know it; to feel it; to be unable to deny your love for him.

Astarion kissed your forehead tenderly, his sweet mouth cool to the touch against your heated skin. He had been surprisingly gentle with you since his confession. Weary, you knew. He had to fight against his instincts every day, doing what he could to unlearn his past behaviors of doing someone else's bidding. It was going to take time, you knew that. You were okay with it. But when he looked at you like this, when he kissed you softly, it made your heart melt completely. You loved him. You'd never say it first, of course, but the feeling was undeniable to you now. Gods, he was going to fucking ruin you.

His mouth captured yours in a searing kiss. His tongue parted your lips and hungrily dominated the kiss as Astarion flipped you over, pushing you down onto his bedroll. His hands were everywhere - in your hair, on your stomach, rolling down your sides. Yours did the same, needily pawing at his body as you wrapped a leg around his waist and gently clawed at his shirt trying to get it off.

He broke away, his tongue sliding from your mouth slowly. His breathing was ragged, not as controlled as it had been in the past. You realized he's letting go, not forcing himself with you. He's being... real. It's so sweet you nearly ruined the moment by blurting out a stupid confessional right then, but as if sensing your anxiety, Astarion simply smirked devilishly.

"You look beautiful," he whispered. "And you smell even better. I'm going to enjoy tasting you tonight." His voice was sultry and hypnotic, practically intoxicating. You squirmed under him nervously as he adjusted to his knees and leaned over to unhook the latch of the tent, leaving you both immersed in nothing but the flickering candle light.

He was back over you in an instant, untucking his shirt from his trousers and over his head, tossing it to the corner of the tent. His body never ceases to amaze you. His skin is made of pure moonlight, pale and annoyingly perfect, with abs that would put even the most acclaimed gods to shame. Astarion winked and pushed his knee to your inner thigh, spreading you open like a tome as his hands glided across your body.

Your heart thundered within your chest as he stripped you of your undershirt, delicately removing the straps like a present. The sting of the cold night air hit your exposed nipples and they puckered from the temperature change. Astarion's practiced hands moved up the length of your arms, guiding them up above your head and he captured your wrists together in his grip, trapping you under him.

He kissed his way down your temple, your cheek, your neck; gently licking his way down your exposed flesh until his tongue rolled around your areola teasingly.

You glanced down and met his burgundy gaze. His pupils were completely blown out with lust and he continued watching you as he sucked your nipple into his mouth, allowing his tongue to swipe over it gingerly. With a loud gasp you closed your eyes, letting the sensation of his tongue completely overwhelm you. His hand dragged its way from your wrists and his thumb and index finger grip your other nipple as he suckles hard, causing your hips to buck and another garbled moan to fall from your traitorous throat.

A wet 'pop' echoed through the tent as his mouth released you. Astarion growled, actually growled, as he slid his hands up your arms again and gripped your wrists, harder this time.

"Hush now, my sweet," his words were sugary but his tone commanding. "I don't want you waking the whole campground. If you do it again, I'll have to force you to be quiet. Understood?"

You nodded in response.

"Sorry, Starry," you whispered. 

He had started making work of dragging your trousers down the length of your legs but stopped abruptly at your apology.

"Don't be sorry, love," he said. "Just don't do it again."

You were way past the point of being turned on - you were practically going mad with arousal as he removed your pants and slowly kissed his way down the length of your stomach. You kept your hands placed above your head, nervous about what he may do if you dared to touch him. It was exhilarating. Filthy. The blood at your core was dripping to the rag placed between your thighs and your pulse quickened as Astarion's mouth worked its way towards your cunt.

Lust-stricken and dizzy, your vision blurred as he gently pulled down your panties with his index fingers, testing you. He was working slowly, playing with his food. Such a tease.

You squirmed beneath him and clenched the muscles in your thighs, eagerly anticipating his mouth against your sopping pussy. A chill ran down your spine as your panties were fully removed, and you suddenly became all too aware of what was about to happen. You peered at the silver-haired man above you through your eyelashes and were pleased to find him entranced by what you were sure was a bloodied, messy affair and your panic decreased ever so slightly. Of course a vampire spawn wasn’t going to shy away from some blood… no matter the source. 

"You know," you did your best to keep your voice calm and gentle. "That we don't have to do this if it's too much, right?" Even though Astarion was the one to propose this little midnight rendezvous, you couldn't help the small sting of fear from creeping its way to the forefront of your mind. You didn't want him to feel any pressure. And you now knew how hard intimacy was for him. You couldn't believe how blind you had been before; how obvious the façade he put on for you was in hindsight, and you weren't going to allow him to put himself in a position like that again. Not ever.

A low chuckle rumbled from the man below you and you almost passed out from how good his breath felt against the thin veil of fabric covering his mouth from where you needed him most. You tried to shut the thoughts of your arousal out as you waited for his answer, but it never came. Instead, he responded with his tongue gently sliding filthily down the blood-stained cloth that was slowly being removed by his deft hand. Astarion’s voice was nearly indistinguishable to you as he ripped the cloth away, pure gravel.

“If I didn’t want to,” he murmured, placing a kiss on your entrance. “Then you wouldn’t be naked in my tent, love. No more talking now.”

His tongue zig-zagged its way through your pussy before you had a full chance to take in his response, and a loutish moan escaped from deep within your throat as the air was filled with a symphony of lewd slurps. His breath was icy from how aching and seething your cunt was for him, and chill after chill overcame your body with each swipe of his practiced tongue. 

He moved your legs to his shoulders as he continued lapping at you like a dehydrated mutt, completely feral for you. Your thighs clamped against his head and you dug your nails into the pillow, clinging desperately onto something to give your soul purchase to the Earth lest it be transported to the fifth dimension. His arms looped under your thighs and he sunk his nails deep into your flesh, marking you as his while he continued licking you desperately. His mouth was rolling over your folds and sucking at you raunchily - every single move he made was audibly wet and absolutely filthy. It was amazing. You were afraid he might lose control, and you almost yanked at his hair to rip him off you, but his tongue slowed then and rolled up the length of your cunt before circling your clit. 

You whined greedily as you rocked your hips, trying to maneuver his tongue to your engorged nub without permission. Astarion immediately withdrew his tongue then, licking his way down to your inner-thigh and kissing your slick skin before piercing you with his sharp fangs. A frosty sensation shot through your bloodstream and you gasped loudly, tangling your fingers into his hair just as the frigid pulses from where his fangs sunk into you melted to an almost unbearable fever. 

Astarion’s nails were embedded into the soft skin of your hips as he drank from you. Your heart banged against your chest like a prisoner trying to escape from their cell and you were certain it was loud enough that it could be heard by the entire camp. Just as your grip started to loose on his hair, his fangs were replaced by his tongue swiping at the small punctures on your thigh. 

“Such a lovely little treat you are,” Astarion hummed, punctuating it with a final kiss to your thigh. “Thank you.”

Thank you. It was so sincere. So intimate. Two words, yet they held such power over your heart. His mouth was against yours again and your core was burning for him. You were needy. Desperate. Your hips thrust up towards him and he pulled away with a hum. 

“Greedy little thing tonight, I see,” he teased. He smirked down at you and kissed your cheek before moving his mouth once again to hover over your entrance. Two nimble fingers pushed into your core as Astarion’s tongue glided swiftly over your clit. An unfamiliar sound erupted from your chest, a high pitched whine, before his free hand was clamped over your mouth. 

“Shut up.” He commanded, and you were done for. Your hands tugged at his hair hysterically as his tongue circled your clit with a brutal slowness. There was no decency left in you. You were nothing but a husk, awaiting Astarion’s mercy of allowing you the pleasure of coming all over his sweet tongue.

Your teeth sank into the skin of his hand while he fucked you with his mouth. He was loud; slurping and sucking at your pussy like he needed it to survive. The air in the tent was unbearably hot. Your skin was sticky with sweat and your lungs hardly had any oxygen left. Astarion pulled back slightly, his fingers pushing in and out of your entrance with lewd squelching sounds as he demanded, “Look at me.”

Without hesitation, your eyes fluttered open and you watched as he dived his face into your cunt again, his gorgeous eyes locked onto yours. You tried to speak but he only clamped his hand harder over your mouth as he continued lapping at you, the flat of his tongue firmly planted against your clit. The familiar coil in your stomach tightened and then released harshly as you orgasmed, your entire body squirming in delight. Astarion moaned through your orgasm, the timbre of his voice sultry as he drank you in like the most lavish of wines.

“Fuck,” you groaned when Astarion released your mouth. He seductively pulled his fingers out of you and licked off the mess you made on them with a smile before he maneuvered himself to spoon you. 

“Wait,” you said, “I wanted to-”

“Hush, love,” he assured. “I promise I’m content with everything. I want you to be comfortable now. Will you stay with me tonight?”

He nibbled at the top of your ear as his arm wrapped around your middle and brought your body close to his. You hummed and nestled into him, allowing him to be your protective barrier. Being this close to him wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed to be this close to him forever. He was security. He was warmth. He was home.

You nodded as you felt yourself start to succumb to the unbearable drowsiness from the day, but you clung to his hand in yours as his finger painted pretty pictures on the skin of your stomach. 

“Goodnight, love,” he whispered. “And thank you.”

“For what?” You mumbled, doing your best to fight against the fade of sleep.

There was a brief moment of silence as you listened to the sound of your heartbeat steady itself. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Astarion nestled his face closer, placing a chaste kiss to your cheek and right as you started to drift away, he said the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.

“For being mine.”

Thank you for reading! If you made it this far, be sure to drop a like or a reblog to support my work <3. I have tons of other stuff on my page if you want to give it a read. This was my first Astarion piece, but I'm sure they'll be plenty more to come because this man singlehandedly got me out of my writing slump!

[novaursa]

The Flames We Hide

- Summary: You were returning from Dragonpit with your sister, Rhaenyra, when you saw Harwin. And you both have a silent agreement: to size another moment together, no matter how brief or fleeting.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger twin sister of Rhaenyra, is bonded to a dragon and has strong resemblance to her grandmother Alyssa. These events happen right after The Secret Flame. Visit my blog for more works like this. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 4 622

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The sky burns in shades of amber and rose as the sun dips toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden light over the world beneath you. The winds tug at your silver-gold hair, whipping it back in wild tangles as you soar high above the lands on the broad wings of Silixia. The she-dragon’s powerful muscles ripple beneath you, every beat of her wings a steady rhythm that reverberates through your entire body. You lean forward, your hands gripping the familiar curve of Silixia’s neck, feeling the warmth of her scales beneath your gloves.

Beside you, your sister Rhaenyra rides atop Syrax, her golden dragon a flash of lightning against the fading daylight. The two of you are a matched pair, always in tandem, even in flight. The court speaks of your bond with wonder and envy—twins in blood, daughters of the king, yet so very different. Rhaenyra’s laughter echoes through the air, mingling with the shriek of Syrax, a sound full of reckless joy and the heady thrill of freedom. Your own smile curves across your lips, a rare expression these days, as you push Silixia to fly faster, challenging Rhaenyra in your unspoken competition.

For a moment, you’re not Y/N Targaryen, princess of the realm, but simply a girl with her sister, free of the burdens and expectations that weigh on you daily. Up here, in the skies, you are boundless.

But it’s a fleeting escape, as you both know.

The winds whistle in your ears as you descend toward the Dragonpit, the ancient stone structure looming in the distance. Even from here, you see the specks of the Dragonkeepers, rushing to prepare for your arrival. The world below draws closer with each passing second, and with it, the return to the pressures of the court—pressures neither you nor Rhaenyra wish to face. You steal a glance at your sister, noticing the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw clenches as she too begins the descent.

Marriage proposals. The word alone feels like a chain around your neck, heavy and unyielding. They’ve plagued you both since you were of age—foolish lords and ambitious knights seeking to claim your hand, thinking they might wield the power of the Iron Throne through you. Your father, King Viserys, listens to the lords’ suggestions with increasing frequency, entertaining every potential match, though none ever seem to stick.

Rhaenyra once joked that the king might have betrothed you to half the realm by now if he could make up his mind. The most recent farce was a suggestion of a Blackwood heir, a boy barely out of his swaddling clothes. It had made you laugh, a rare and bitter sound, but the truth was, these discussions grated on you both.

As your dragons land in unison with an earth-shaking thud before the Dragonpit, the ground trembles beneath their weight. Silixia growls low in her throat, molten-gold eyes flashing as she looks toward the Dragonkeepers with wary interest. You run a gloved hand down her brass scales, murmuring soft words of reassurance as she snorts, sending a gust of warm breath that rustles your skirts.

“Sometimes I wish we could stay up there forever,” Rhaenyra says, her voice edged with the same melancholy that grips your heart. She dismounts Syrax with fluid grace, her gaze drifting skyward as if she could will the sun to stand still and delay the inevitable return to the Red Keep. You understand her sentiment all too well; in the skies, the concerns of land-bound mortals feel distant, insignificant.

You slide down from Silixia’s side, boots crunching against the gravel. “At least up there, no one’s shoving marriage contracts in our faces,” you reply, your tone carrying more bite than you intend. Silixia’s tail flicks, brushing against your side in a gesture of comfort, and you smile at her affectionately. “Father may claim he’s thinking of what’s best for us, but it feels more like he’s trying to sell us off.”

Rhaenyra’s expression darkens, her violet eyes narrowing. “He doesn’t see it that way,” she mutters, her voice laced with frustration. “To him, it’s our duty—marrying to secure alliances, continuing the Targaryen line. But it’s never about us, is it?”

The Dragonkeepers approach cautiously, guiding Silixia and Syrax toward their lairs. The great doors creak open, and the smell of straw, smoke, and dragon flesh fills the air. Silixia reluctantly allows herself to be led, casting one last, longing glance at you before disappearing into the darkness. You feel a pang in your chest as she’s taken away, though you know she’ll be safe.

“No, it isn’t,” you agree softly, turning to face Rhaenyra as the last rays of the sun cast your shadows long against the stone. “But Father isn’t the only one who decides our fate, Rhaenyra. If we let them all dictate our lives, we’ll never have a say in our own stories.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see the same fire in them that burns within you—a desire to break free, to carve your own path. “We’ll have to make our own way then, won’t we?” she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You and I, together.”

“Together,” you echo, determination strengthening your voice. Whatever the realm or the lords conspire, you and Rhaenyra would not be mere pawns. The blood of the dragon flows through your veins, and dragons do not bend to the whims of others.

As the sun passes fully beneath the horizon, the golden light fading into twilight, you know that this brief escape is over. The court awaits, and with it, the endless schemes and proposals, but you’ll face them with your sister by your side. And perhaps, if the gods are kind, there might be a way to chart your own destiny, one that doesn’t leave you chained by the expectations of others.

With one last glance at the sky, you turn toward the path leading back to the Red Keep, your sister falling into step beside you. The night is full of uncertainties, but as long as you have each other, you’ll find a way to burn bright and free.

The council chamber is filled with the low murmur of voices and the sound of parchment being unrolled as the small council convenes. The sun filters through the high windows, casting shadows across the dark wood of the table where the lords of Westeros sit, advising the king. At the head of the table, King Viserys I sits with an air of distracted authority, his mind clearly elsewhere, but nonetheless prepared to endure another round of discussions on the matters of the realm.

Lord Lyonel Strong, seated at his place on the council, finds it difficult to focus. His thoughts are a tangled web, caught between duty to his house and the growing concern for his eldest son, Harwin. For weeks now, Harwin’s unexpected confession has haunted Lyonel. Harwin’s words replay in his mind over and over: “Father, I am in love with her.” 

Lyonel had always known Harwin to be a man of quiet strength, with a loyalty that ran as deep as any river, but he had not expected this. It was not the confession of love itself that troubled Lyonel—though it was a complicated and dangerous emotion where a Targaryen princess was concerned—but the implications. If word reached the king that Harwin had grown too close to Y/N, it could spell disaster for House Strong, and worse, for the princess herself. The realm would not take kindly to whispers of such intimacy, especially in the shadow of Rhaenyra’s own contentious situation.

He suppresses a sigh as the discussion turns, the lords now speaking of the princess Y/N and her betrothal. Viserys’ brow furrows slightly as Lord Otto Hightower speaks up, his voice as oily and insidious as ever.

“The matter of Princess Y/N’s marriage cannot be delayed much longer, Your Grace. The Blackwood heir remains a favorable option—an ancient and noble house, strong ties in the Riverlands…” Otto’s voice trails off as he glances around the table, his eyes sharp and calculating.

Viserys looks tired, the mention of yet another marriage proposal clearly grating on him. “The Blackwood boy is still a child,” the king mutters, almost to himself. “Barely a year old. I do not see how a match like that benefits Y/N.”

Lyonel’s grip tightens on the arms of his chair. Harwin had been crushed when the proposal first came to light, unable to mask his anger at the idea of Y/N being married off to someone so unsuitable. Lyonel had known better than to comment on it then, but now, as the subject resurfaces, a plan begins to form in his mind. It is a risky maneuver, one that could backfire spectacularly, but it is the only chance he sees to protect both his son and the princess.

The discussion drags on, but Lyonel barely hears it, his thoughts focused on what he will say to the king when the others leave. When the meeting finally concludes, and the lords begin to gather their things, Lyonel remains seated, waiting for the others to clear out. Viserys notices and raises an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Lord Lyonel,” Viserys says, his voice expectant. “It seems you have something on your mind.”

“Your Grace, if I might have a word in private,” Lyonel replies carefully, rising from his chair with a slight bow. Viserys gestures for the guards to leave the chamber, and soon the room is quiet, save for the crackling of the hearth.

“What troubles you?” Viserys asks, leaning back in his seat with a weary expression. “It is rare for you to seek private counsel with me.”

Lyonel’s heart pounds in his chest, but he keeps his face composed, as he has always done. “It is a matter regarding Princess Y/N, Your Grace. And her marriage.”

Viserys sits up a little straighter, his weariness giving way to curiosity. “Go on.”

“I understand that there has been much discussion of potential matches, including the recent talk of a Blackwood heir. I would not presume to question the wisdom of your council, but I believe there is another path that has not yet been fully considered—one that could ensure both the stability of the realm and the happiness of your daughter.”

Viserys frowns slightly, his eyes narrowing. “And what match might that be, Lord Lyonel?”

Lyonel chooses his words with the utmost care. “My son, Ser Harwin, has always been loyal to the crown, a man of proven strength and honor. I believe he could be a fitting match for Princess Y/N.”

Viserys’ surprise is evident in the way his eyebrows shoot up. “Harwin Strong?” The king’s tone is one of genuine shock. “I had not considered such a proposal from you, Lyonel. You’ve never once sought advancement for your house in this manner. Why now?”

Lyonel forces himself to hold the king’s gaze. “Because I believe this match would benefit not only my house but your daughter as well. Harwin’s affection for her is sincere, Your Grace. He would be devoted to her in both heart and duty. And the crown would gain a staunch ally in the Riverlands through House Strong.”

Viserys leans back in his chair, his eyes distant as he considers the proposal. “It is unexpected,” he admits. “But sincere affection, as you say, is not often found in such matters. Still, I must consider the optics. The princess… she is a Targaryen, and such a match would raise eyebrows. Harwin is a good man, but he does not hold the power or prestige of some of the other houses being proposed.”

Lyonel nods, expecting this reaction. “True, Your Grace. But there is strength in loyalty and love. Harwin would never see the princess used or diminished by court politics. He would protect her fiercely, as he has always protected those he cares for. Surely, a match built on genuine regard would lead to a more harmonious union than one based solely on titles.”

Viserys remains silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming on the table as he contemplates the idea. “You make a compelling case, Lyonel,” he says at last, his tone softer now, as if genuinely pondering the possibility. “But this is not a decision I will take lightly. I will consider it, but there are other matters to weigh as well.”

Lyonel bows his head in acknowledgment, sensing that he has planted the seed he needed to. “Of course, Your Grace. I only ask that you weigh it with care. The princess’s happiness—and the stability of the realm—must be our highest priority.”

Viserys nods, though his expression remains conflicted. “You are dismissed, Lyonel. I will think on what you’ve said.”

As Lyonel takes his leave, he feels the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. He knows he has taken a bold risk, one that could either secure a brighter future for his son and the princess—or doom them both if it fails. But for now, all he can do is wait and hope that Viserys’s heart leans toward the idea of love and loyalty over ambition and politics.

The door closes softly behind him, and the chamber is left in silence, with only the faint crackle of the fire echoing in the room.

The streets of King’s Landing are alive with the usual noise and bustle of the city as dusk settles over the capital. The gold cloaks of the City Watch patrol every corner, their eyes sharp for trouble. Ser Harwin Strong rides at the head of a small detachment, his gaze roving over the streets with practiced vigilance. His armor gleams in the fading light, and his presence alone is enough to command respect from the men under his command. 

Yet, beneath the exterior of duty, Harwin’s thoughts are elsewhere. He cannot shake the weight of his father’s concerns, the quiet warnings Lyonel had shared after Harwin’s confession. There are dangers in being so close to the princess, but the heart is a stubborn thing, and his heart belongs wholly to Y/N. Her laughter, her fierce spirit, the fire in her violet eyes—they haunt him in moments when he should be focused. 

As his patrol rounds the corner near the Dragonpit, his attention sharpens when he sees a group approaching. The distinctive white cloaks of the Kingsguard stand out against the shadowy backdrop of the city. Harwin immediately recognizes the figures being escorted—Princess Rhaenyra and her twin sister, Y/N, mounted on fine steeds and surrounded by the armored knights sworn to protect them. The sight of Y/N sends a jolt through him, a mix of yearning and concern. 

Their eyes meet, and in that brief moment, a silent understanding passes between them. There’s no need for words; they know each other too well. Y/N gives the faintest nod, and Harwin feels his pulse quicken. Whatever it is she’s planning, he’s already committed to playing his part. 

Suddenly, Y/N sways in her saddle, her hand fluttering to her forehead as if struck by a sudden dizziness. The Kingsguard immediately take notice, and Ser Harrold Westerling, ever vigilant, urges his horse closer. “Princess, are you unwell?” he asks, his voice laced with concern. 

Y/N’s voice is faint, but convincing. “I feel… light-headed. Perhaps the strain of the flight has caught up with me.” She sways again for emphasis, and Harwin spurs his horse forward, concern etched into his features. 

“Ser Harrold, allow me to assist the princess,” Harwin says, his tone urgent yet respectful. He moves his horse beside Y/N’s, ready to catch her should she falter further. “I’ll take her to the Red Keep myself, where she can be seen to immediately.”

Ser Harrold’s eyes narrow, suspicion flickering in their depths. “That will not be necessary, Ser Harwin. The princess will be escorted by me and my men directly to the Keep. We are under strict orders from the king.”

Harwin’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his expression neutral. “I understand, Ser Harrold, but I’ve known the princess since she was a child. Let me ensure her safety, as I would see to my own kin. I can bring her swiftly and with care.”

Before Ser Harrold can respond, Rhaenyra rides forward, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed mischief as she catches on to her sister’s ploy. “Ser Harrold, it is clear that Y/N is in distress, and she would be more comfortable with someone familiar. Ser Harwin has always been a trusted protector of our family.” She tilts her head slightly, letting a hint of command slip into her tone. “Surely, you would not deny my sister the comfort she needs when it is readily available?”

Ser Harrold glances between the two princesses, clearly torn. On one hand, his duty is unwavering; on the other, Rhaenyra’s argument is persuasive, and there’s little cause to suspect foul play. He knows better than to openly contradict a royal daughter, especially one as willful as Rhaenyra. After a long, tense moment, he relents, though his reluctance is obvious.

“Very well, Ser Harwin,” Ser Harrold says, his voice tinged with resignation. “But know that I’ll hold you to your word that the princess reaches the Keep unharmed and without delay. The king will hear of this if she does not.”

“On my honor,” Harwin replies, dipping his head with a solemn expression, though a flicker of relief and triumph gleams in his eyes. 

With that, Rhaenyra flashes a sly grin at her sister and spurs her horse onward, leaving Y/N and Harwin behind. “I’ll see you at the Keep, sister,” she says, her voice lilting with amusement. “Do take care on your way.” She gives Ser Harrold and the other Kingsguard a pointed look, leading them on toward the Keep as they follow her.

Once they’re out of earshot, Y/N lets out a small breath of relief, her feigned dizziness evaporating as she steadies herself in the saddle. Harwin watches her closely, a hint of admiration in his gaze.

��Quite the performance,” he murmurs, guiding his horse closer to hers as they begin to ride slowly, side by side, through the quieter streets. “I almost believed you were truly unwell.”

Y/N’s lips curve into a playful smile. “I thought it convincing enough. It’s not every day a princess needs rescuing, after all.” But the teasing lilt in her voice is softened by the warmth in her eyes as she meets his gaze. “Thank you for playing along, Harwin.”

“For you? Always,” Harwin replies, his voice low and sincere. He reaches out, his fingers briefly brushing against hers in a gesture that is both subtle and intimate, hidden from prying eyes in the fading light. “But tell me, what is it you needed from me that required such theatrics?”

Y/N’s expression turns more serious as she considers her words. “I needed a moment away from all the expectations, away from the endless talks of marriage and duty. And more importantly… I needed a moment with you.” The weight of her admission hangs between them, unspoken but understood.

Harwin’s breath hitches slightly, his heart tightening at her words. He has always known this dance between them is a dangerous one, but it is one he cannot resist. “Every time I see you surrounded by those guards, by the chains of duty that bind you, it makes me wish things were different,” he says softly, his voice full of yearning. “I wish I could be more than just a protector.”

Y/N turns in her saddle, her gaze locking onto his. “You are more, Harwin. You know you are.”

For a moment, the world shrinks to just the two of them—the city, the court, all of it fades away. But reality cannot be ignored forever, and the path to the Red Keep looms ahead. They both know this brief interlude is all they can afford, but the unspoken promises between them are enough for now.

As they approach the gates, Harwin reluctantly pulls his hand away and straightens in his saddle, resuming the role of dutiful knight. “I’ll see you safely back to your chambers, Princess,” he says formally, though the glint in his eyes tells her everything he cannot say aloud.

“Until the next escape, Ser Harwin,” she replies with a soft smile, a hidden message beneath the words. 

With that, they continue toward the Keep, knowing that while their paths may be dictated by duty and expectation, there are still moments they can carve out for themselves—stolen glances, hidden touches, and unspoken vows that bind them closer than any formal oath could.

The vast halls of the Red Keep are quieter than usual as the day gives way to the cool embrace of evening. The golden light from the torches flickers on the stone walls, casting long shadows that dance and twist in the dim corridors. As Harwin escorts you back to your chambers, you can feel the weight of the day slowly lifting, replaced by the familiar tension that simmers between you and him. It’s a tension that has grown with each stolen glance, each brief touch hidden from prying eyes.

As you approach the throne room, Ser Harrold Westerling stands at the entrance, his white cloak billowing slightly as he catches sight of you. His eyes shift briefly to Harwin, a silent acknowledgment in his expression. Though his face remains stern, there’s a flicker of understanding—a silent nod that tells Harwin he has done his duty and that the princess has been safely returned. 

“Ser Harwin,” Harrold says in a gruff voice as the two pass by him. He doesn’t need to say more. The message is clear: this is where their paths diverge, but he’ll trust Harwin to see the princess the rest of the way. Harwin dips his head respectfully in return, but his focus remains on you as you make your way deeper into the Keep.

The royal quarters are just ahead, but Harwin notices something in your expression—a spark in your eyes and the faintest curve of a smile on your lips. He knows that look all too well, the one that signals you’re about to do something reckless, something entirely unplanned. Before he can even ask what you’re plotting, you move with a sudden swiftness, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward a shadowed alcove. Your fingers grip his with a sense of urgency and mischief.

“Y/N, what—” he starts, but you silence him with a playful look, your eyes gleaming with a secretive promise. 

You drag him behind a heavy tapestry, revealing a hidden doorway that he hadn’t noticed before. The stone creaks as you push it open, leading into a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away from the prying eyes of the court. The air inside is thick with dust, as if it hasn’t been disturbed in years. Harwin’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes where you’ve brought him—a place so private that it feels as if it belongs only to the two of you.

The moment the door closes behind you, the pretense falls away, leaving only the truth of your feelings. The tension that has been building throughout the day snaps, and you close the distance between you in an instant. Your lips crash against his, the kiss fierce and full of the passion that you both have been forced to suppress. Harwin responds without hesitation, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer until there is nothing between you but the heat of your bodies. 

It’s a dance you both know well by now—his lips mapping the familiar curve of your neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging as his kisses trail down to your collarbone. There’s a hunger in his touch, tempered by a tenderness that only you bring out in him. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as he kisses you again, slower this time, savoring every second. You press closer, your hands slipping beneath the leather of his armor, finding the hard planes of his chest beneath. The feel of his heartbeat, strong and steady, thrums beneath your palm, grounding you in this moment.

“Every time I think of you marrying another,” Harwin murmurs against your lips, his voice a low, desperate whisper, “it drives me mad. The thought of losing you… I don’t know how I’d bear it.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes searching his as you trace a line down the side of his face. “You won’t lose me,” you breathe, your words laced with quiet determination. “Not now. Not ever. I belong to no one but myself—and to you, if the gods are kind.”

Harwin’s grip tightens on your waist, a flash of fierce emotion in his eyes. “I want more than stolen moments, more than secret chambers and whispers in the dark,” he confesses, his voice thick with longing. “I want to be with you openly, without fear or restraint.”

“I want that too,” you reply, your voice trembling with sincerity. “But until then, until we find a way… we have this.” Your hand trails down to his chest, your fingers pressing against the rhythm of his heartbeat, as if to mark it as your own.

His lips find yours again, softer this time, a kiss that speaks of unspoken vows and promises that only the two of you understand. His hand slides down your back, memorizing every curve, every dip, as if committing it to memory for the nights when you can’t be together. Your own touch mirrors his, tracing the line of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, and the warmth that radiates from his skin. Every touch, every kiss is laced with the knowledge that this cannot last—at least not now. 

As much as it pains you both, there’s no time to linger. The world beyond this hidden chamber is waiting, and you both know that others will soon seek you out. Harwin pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you catching your breath, hearts racing as you savor the closeness one last time.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” you whisper, your fingers brushing against his lips.

“So do I,” Harwin murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your brow. “But we’ll find more moments like this. I promise you.”

You smile softly, the sadness in your eyes giving way to a glimmer of hope. “Until then… we’ll make the most of what we have.”

Reluctantly, you both disentangle, fixing your clothes and smoothing out your appearances to mask any signs of your secret rendezvous. Harwin’s hand lingers on yours as you step back into the corridor, the hidden door sliding closed behind you. The tapestry falls back into place, and it’s as if nothing ever happened—just another cold stone wall in the labyrinth of the Red Keep.

But as you make your way back to your chambers, Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on you, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat longer. There’s a silent agreement between you, one that needs no words—this isn’t the end, just another chapter in a story that’s far from over.

With one last glance over your shoulder, you offer him a small, secret smile—the same one you gave him earlier, full of the promise of more unpredictable escapes, more stolen kisses, and the hope that one day, these moments won’t have to be stolen at all. Harwin watches you disappear into the shadows of the royal quarters, the ache in his chest both a comfort and a torment as he turns away, returning to his duties, but with the warmth of your touch still lingering on his skin.

[wlntrsldler]

THE PROPHECY | LUKE CASTELLAN

synopsis: series of events between zeus!reader and luke that started the prophecy. not canon-compliant; inspired by the prophecy by taylor swift.

series masterlist | previous | next

I guess a lesser woman would've lost hope. A greater woman wouldn't beg but I looked to the sky and said "Please."

The first time you burned offerings, you had hope that your father would acknowledge you. It was the day after you got to Camp Half-Blood. You burned your entire plate of food, choosing to starve for the night, in hopes that your father would offer his condolences. Perhaps, he'd empathize with you. You both lost someone, after all, you a sister and he a child.

But nothing happened. You thought you did it wrong, that your father just didn’t hear your prayers– he wasn’t ignoring you, of course not, what parent would ignore their grieving child? You stayed up the entire night reading ancient texts, knocking on the doors of cabins to speak to head counselors for guidance. You were too naive about this life to notice the pity in their eyes then. None of them had the heart to tell you that your father wouldn't show mercy, at least not in the way you wanted him to. They never did.

You tried again the next day, only to be met with the same fate. But Luke, who had heard of your attempts, saved half of the food he was given and knocked on the door of the lonely Zeus cabin to share it with you. He'd gotten in trouble for not burning an offering that day, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to let you go to bed hungry two nights in a row. 

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, then years, your offerings began to get smaller and smaller, until finally, prayers became more of a chore, a thing to check off on your to-do list. It stopped meaning something. It was three years of unanswered, half-hearted, prayers. 

Luke stumbled into Camp Half-Blood midday. A large gash was across his face, blood staining his skin. He was clutching his side, shirt nearly ripped to shreds, similar to how his skin was raw and frayed under his clothes. He'd used all his strength to carry himself into camp before falling to his knees when his eyes finally found you in the chaos of it all. 

He said your name once, voice hoarse and scratchy like Ladon clawed his way inside Luke, ripping out his vocal cords, not sparing a part of him from destruction. When he finally collapsed, you ran to him, smearing the red of his blood all over your own clothes, as the Apollo kids pried you away from him.

For the first time in three years, you were going to bed hungry again. The charred remnants of what would've been your dinner created a foul scent in the air. Luke’s blood was still lodged beneath your fingertips, staining your hands even after you’ve rubbed them raw. It made you sick. 

"Dad," You pleaded, watching the smoke fade into the night sky. Your tears were flowing down your face, chest heaving as you ignored the distant sounds of the campers you were meant to be looking after. "I haven't asked you for anything in years, but now I'm asking you this. They can't take him. Please, not Luke." 

For a moment the world seemed to still. The clouds in the sky disappeared, specks of white faded into the midnight blue. You turned around, looking for a sign of life somewhere, anywhere. There was nothing but silence, no sounds of owls hooting in conversation, no whistles of the air, no chatter of the few kids who stayed at camp. 

When the flame in front of you extinguished with a whoosh, the darkness engulfed you, leaving nothing but the thin light illuminated by the moon. Black smoke rose from the pit as you looked up to the sky, "Please." 

A flash of light vanished as quickly as it came. There appeared a ragged line perfectly between the peaks of the mountains, bright white, leaving a haze of silver in your vision. Then a rumble of the earth, shaking the ground your knees were glued to. Lighting and thunder. A sign that Zeus had heard you. 

A high-pitched noise rang across the world, different frequencies like it was caused by more than just one thing. The noise made you cover your ears with your open palms, groaning as you fell over by the sheer power of it. Then the world resumed, like what you just witnessed, what you just experienced, was a glitch in the fabric of time. 

Your offerings were nothing but ashes now and the clouds returned to the sky, this time carrying the weight of water as droplets fell on your bare skin. You stood up, rushing to the infirmary, barely beating the relentless storm that was brewing. 

Lee Fletcher turned around at the sudden intrusion, eyes wide in shock for the second time that night. You stood at the door, trying to catch your breath. He smiled at you, as he took two steps to the left, then disappeared in the other room. Luke was propped on his bed, shoulders hunched over as he touched the bandages on his face. As if he felt your presence, he turned his head, wincing at the pain that shot up his spine when he overextended. Even with one eye taped shut, you saw his gaze soften. 

His voice came out as a whisper, barely audible, but you still heard it. "Hey, you." 

Your body seemed to have a mind of its own. If it wasn't for the sounds of your footsteps pounding against the wooden floors, if it wasn't for your hands reaching over to touch Luke's face, warmth spreading against your skin to anchor you, to show you that he's really there in front of you, you wouldn't have believed that this was real. 

The gods were cruel sometimes. They messed with your head until you were questioning your own sanity. At first, you thought this was one of their games, one of the things they did to toy with mortals for their own entertainment. Perhaps, Luke wasn’t really here; But then you felt it– his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Home. This was real.

"You're okay," You cried, hands grazing over every part of his body. You tried to ignore the raised flesh under the bandages, running across large expanses of his skin. The scars were still fresh, blotches of red marking the white cloth. "You're okay." 

"I'm okay," He repeated, a side smile appearing on his face. His hands gripped your waist, needing to feel you just as much as you needed to feel him. Luke wanted to tell you that all he thought of was you the whole time. Even when the sides of his vision darkened, and all he could do was drag himself through the familiar neck of the Montauk woods, it was the image of you that he kept chasing. 

You, waiting for him under the shade of Thalia’s tree. You, shaking him awake in the Hermes cabin to start your rounds around camp. You, smiling at him like there was something worth living for in this life. You. 

Luke wanted to tell you that it was the promise of spending life with you, even if he was nothing more than your best friend to you, that kept him hanging onto the thread of life. If he survived this, he swore to himself that he'd tell you how he truly felt about you. He couldn't die without you knowing.

"I shouldn't have lied to you," You said, "I should've told you to stay like I wanted to." 

Luke shook his head, "This isn't on you. I wasn't fit to go on this quest. I failed." 

"You're the strongest person I know, Luke." 

"This wasn't a test of strength," He snarled. Luke always got like this when he talked about things related to his father and the gods. Resentment dripped from his voice like honey. It wasn't a tone you were too familiar with because he never spoke to you like this. "I was right. This was a test of something else. He sent me on this quest to fail... and I fell for it." 

Luke did things with conviction. He was born to be a leader and it showed. He never cowered from a challenge. He held his head high, even when things didn't go his way. He learned from his mistakes and he made sure it would never happen again. 

But sometimes, in the rare moments where the pain of failure pierces his heart, he turns into the little boy you once met. The same one who did things for the approval of his father. The same one who defied the odds and fell into the traps of the insincerity of the gods. The same one who blamed himself for not being good enough– not good enough to save his mother from the Oracle, not good enough to save his friend, not good enough to warrant more than two sentences from his father. 

You always said that you and Luke were two sides of the same coin, both burdened by the feeling of knowing you should’ve done more, but differed in the way you went about life. Luke welcomed his responsibilities, fueled by his search for glory, while you shied away from this life as much as you could. 

Your mouth felt dry as the heavy raindrops trickled against the window pane, "I'm glad you're still here." 

"I couldn't leave you here on your own," He replied, voice dropping to a whisper. His hands tugged you closer to him. You let him wrap his arms around you, feeling his heart against your chest. "Can I tell you something?" 

"Always." 

"I–" This was it. He couldn't wait anymore, not when he faced death and all he could think of was how his heart would ache, longing for you, until your time came to join him in the afterlife. Even on the brink of his demise, all he could think of was you. He wasn’t afraid of dying, he was afraid of being in Elysium without you. Would it even be a paradise if you weren’t there?

Luke's words got caught in his throat. His confidence was at an all-time low. If you rejected him now, he doesn't think he'd be able to bear it. He didn't think he could handle the thought of facing the repercussions of this failed quest without you by his side. He cleared his throat, "I-I'm tired. Will you stay here tonight?" 

You nodded, running your hands through his hair as you gently laid him down on the bed, careful not to put pressure on his wounds. You kept your distance, afraid to cause more harm than good, but Luke was not having any of it. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his weak body. He couldn’t move much in fear that he’d tear his skin even more with any slight movement, but that was the least of his worries. In fact, he had no worries now.

He made it to Camp Half-Blood, alive, albeit a failure, but he was with you. There were no worries in the world anymore. 

“Luke?” You whispered. You turned to face him, recognizing the face you’ve grown to love even in the darkness of the cabin. The flashes of lightning illuminated his face every so often. Despite all of this, he still looked beautiful. Your Luke always did. 

“Hm?” He hummed, eye fluttering open at the sound of your voice. The noise of the storm was drowned out by your soft breaths against his cheek, warm and comforting. “What is it?” 

“You know I love you, right?” You professed, reaching up to touch the uncovered side of his face. He melted into your touch, feeling safe and seen in such a small action. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t make it.” 

“You should know by now that I’ll never leave you,” He chuckled, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll be kicking and screaming if they ever try to keep me away from you. They’ll have to send more than one dragon to keep me from you.” 

You laughed, “You’re insane, you know that?.” 

“I know,” He looked down at your lips. You’d both been in situations like this before, caught in the magnetic pull of each other, but had enough strength to pull away before either of you could do anything that would lead to regret. “For the record, I love you, too.” 

“Do you?” You breathed out, wondering if he understood your question. You said it to each other often. You both let it linger in the air, subtext and unsaid words on the tips of your tongues. “Do you love me?” 

The way you were looking at him made his heart race. Is it the right time to tell you everything? Is it too soon? Will you think that he was just saying these things because of what happened? Would you trust him if he told you that he loved you in every way that a person could ever love another? 

If he asked you if you trusted him with your life, you’d say yes with no hesitation. You’d trusted him with your life since you first met him. All his life, Luke had been taught to be wary of the people he met, but not when he met you. It was like you saw right through him. You understood him like nobody he’d ever met. 

“I love you,” He said, hoping that it was enough to show you. If he had his way, he would let you peek into his mind, his soul, and his heart, just so you’d see that all of him yearned for you. 

“Do you–” You paused, tilting your head to brush your lips against his. The storm began to calm outside. “Do you love me like this?” 

Luke’s grip on your waist tightened, hands burning against the exposed flesh on your lower back, “Yes. Always.” 

You sighed, placing your lips on his. You felt Luke shiver at the feeling. His lips moved against your own in a gentle kiss, innocent and kind. The rain ceased. You pulled away from him, continuing to trace patterns on his skin. Luke’s face relaxed as he held you in his arms, letting the tiredness in his bones win. 

When the both of you woke the next morning, the sun was shining brightly through the curtains, with no traces of last night’s storm to be seen.

[monocaelia]

redolence.

he can't help but be drawn to you again and again; you're intoxicating and he fears he has grown addicted. feat. wriothesley & gn!reader w.c : 1.4 k warnings : physically intimate scenario but nothing happens , a result of me being touch starved lol note : i'm back for a little (: this idea has been haunting me and i wanted a simple warm up.

the warmth of your quaint apartment is welcoming as wriothesley haggardly enters through your doorway, a sharp contrast from the cool night breeze that clings to the streets of the court of fontaine. the smell of dinner entices the duke further into your home, but his exhausted body yearns for something other than the food waiting for him on the dining room table.

his feet shuffle across the hardwood floors, not even bothering to switch any lanterns on as your home has been memorized from the countless number of times he has visited you.

you, his beloved.

just as your name echoes in his head, your head pops out from the hallway leading into your bedroom and your bright smile lights up the darkness in your abode, putting the moon and her gracious light to shame.

the humble apartment comes to life as the lanterns illuminate the living space and the patter of your feet against the floor is all wriothesley can hear before-

"wrio!" you call his name and the duke can already feel his muscles relax and the weight from keeping busy at meropide lift from his shoulders. as if by instinct, wriothesley opens his arms wide and he doesn't need a warning from you as he feels your body leap into his arms.

and despite his world now embracing him in his arms, the duke of the fortress of meropide feels the most at ease.

your feet land on the wooden floor of your home as your lover sets you back down, grounding you back to reality and yet your heart still feels like it's feather light as if you weighed nothing more than a speck of dust as you meet ashen eyes.

he looks exhausted from a long day's work; the silver eyes that you love so much drooping and the weary lines below his eyes a bit more prominent this evening. his usually tousled hair is messier than it usually is and your fingers reach up to fix it as much as you could.

the sea of midnight tufts streaked with silver, reminiscent of the galaxies you would see littering the clear night sky after the tears of the hydro dragon cleanse the land of fontaine, is soft to the touch and you wish you could play with it forever. your fingers linger down to his jaw, caressing the scars that have made their home along his face.

and you watch as the man who has seen what the world has to offer in the worst way possible melt into your touch as if it were the only safe haven he knows.

"i take it work was rough on you?" you ask your lover, a smile growing on your face as wriothesley sighs heavily.

"don't get me started," he begins, pressing a kiss into your palm. "i'd rather not talk about it and ruin my mood for tonight."

your lover stays true to his word as his hand trails down your arm; his larger hand encases your own and keeps yours glued to his face as your warmth encompass him. however, as wriothesley relishes in your simple touch, something about you intrigues him. it stimulates his senses, reeling the duke in closer to your skin. he can feel your body heat increasing as he buries his face into your palm before sliding to your wrist as the scent grows stronger.

it's sweet, a smoky, herbal aroma with a hint of fruit... was it sunsettias? or bulle fruit?

regardless of what it was, it's enticing to the duke and he found himself inching his face further and further into the warmth of your body. you find it ticklish the way wriothesley's nose skims up your arm from your wrist, inhaling every single inch of your skin to get more of the aroma into his system.

his touch is dizzying to you; the kiss to your palm already sending your chest ablaze and it only gets worse the more he kisses up your arm. each press of his lips against your skin sends waves of heat over your body but you find it hard to pull away from the intimate atmosphere.

"new perfume?" your boyfriend grumbles against your shoulder as he takes in more of the scent. what was it; the fruity smell is on the tip of his tongue and yet fatigue clouds his brain.

"n-no," you stammer out in a voice that wavers in strength. your free hand, the one not held in your lover's as his lips caress your skin again and again, grips onto the fabric of his shirt. his heat melds into yours as your bodies get closer in the small room of your apartment. "it's a new body oil i'm trying out from sumeru... does it smell weird?"

truly, wriothesley's actions are quite the opposite of that. if anything, this herbal scent clinging onto your body lures the supposed cold duke that oversees the fortress of meropide into your frame and turns him into complete putty underneath the mere graze of your finger.

if only the prisoners of meropide could see the duke now.

wriothesley feels your body shiver as he nears your neck with his touch. you're flustered, skin warming up and breath hitching, and as a result he pulls away from your body... only to be greeted by such a delightful sight; eyes wide open like a deer caught in the spotlight and your kissable lips parted in such a way that almost reels him in completely.

oh, what you do to him.

"far from weird, sweetheart," wriothesley murmurs softly, his voice a mere whisper, before he delves down again as temptation rules over his mind and his body yearns for your touch. his lips press into your own, the taste of his afternoon tea enveloping your senses; it's floral yet citrus hints make your head spin as his kisses caress your lips again and again.

wriothesley's arms have moved to hold your waist and pull you closer to him; the need to feel every inch of you on his own body is overwhelming the duke and he knows he won't be able to hold himself back for too long.

you're too intoxicating and the aroma that wafts from your body is only pulling him further and further in.

your lover pulls away from the kiss, but you've only a moment of respite before his lips press into your skin again. they trail from your jaw down to the crook of your neck. your body shivers as his warm breath fans across the expanse of your neck and yet you're far from cold.

it's ticklish the way wriothesley buries himself into your neck and you can't even pull away to compose yourself as his arms trap you within his arms; a prisoner in the fortress of his embrace.

"wrio, maybe we should call it a night?" your voice is barely a breath as you try to snap your lover out of his trance, not that you would mind where this would be headed to but... the moon was high in the sky and you know wriothesley would be even more exhausted the next morning should the both of you continue.

his nuzzles against your skin put to a halt due to your words and like an obedient lover, wriothesley pulls away with a tired smile. he leans down again but only to press light kisses against the apples of your cheek and forehead.

"sorry, darling," wriothesley whispers in the close space between you. his thumb has come up to gently rub across your cheek and his heart skips a beat seeing how frazzled you had become because of him. he kisses you again, but this time it's brief and light. "you're just too much for me sometimes."

"all i did was welcome you home." your deadpan manner makes your lover chuckle softly.

and yet as the two of you bicker late into the night, all the duke could think about was the solace that you bring when you're near him. the warmth in your smile, the comfort in your embrace, and the relief that you bring to him with just your scent alone is enough to bring his mind at ease after the taxing work hours at the fortress of meropide.

should the days toughen the duke even more than he already is, he knows you'll be there to soften and protect his heart with a simple touch.

his solace.

[kingkatsuki]

This was based off an ask I received from Kitten, thank you for always giving me the best ideas💕

But imagine you get caught up in a sudden trash storm with Enjin, it's not enough debris to damage the car but it's dangerous enough you can't drive or walk. The two of you are just barely outside the city, stuck in a very confined van with tension that's been mounting since the two of you met. Before Enjin leans over and presses his lips to yours, again and again before he's pulling from the passenger seat to the bench seat in the back. Tongue sliding over yours with a groan as he pins you to the old thread bare upholstery with the hopes of fogging up the windows.

Pairings: Engine / Enjin x f!reader.

Warnings: 18+, friends to lovers, car sex, minimal prep, unprotected sex, creampie, spanking, praise, dirty talk.

Word Count: 4.1k.

“Maybe you should take a break,” You glance over the centre console to see Enjin’s eyes fluttering at the wheel, sat forward in his chair as he fights sleep.

The heavy rock playing through the worn car radio does nothing to ease his drowsiness, nor do the potholes almost as large as craters that scatter along the contaminated zone.

Reaching over you run your fingers through the buzzed hairs of his undercut, trying to coax his attention back to the path in front of you. Enjin jolts slightly on contact before heaving a soft sigh, his knuckles turn white from how hard he grips the steering wheel as he narrowly misses a large trash pile.

“M’fine,” Enjin mumbles, reluctantly pulling himself away from your touch, terrified that the soothing sensation will have him falling asleep at the wheel.

“I know you’re tired,” You push, “Just for a bit, yeah? A power nap.”

You wanted to get home just as badly as him, the unspoken feelings between you two made it difficult to breathe and this mission had been exhausting. Not to mention how dangerous it was to settle in a contaminated zone for too long, especially when it was just the pair of you. Humans could be just as dangerous as the monsters that reside in the area.

“We’re like sitting ducks out here,” Enjin continued, and he would know. For some reason the Giver enjoyed taking strolls in the contaminated zone, even though the air was unbreatheable, “It’s not much further, it’ll be fine.”

A washer dryer falls to the left of you, colliding into the ground with an almighty smash. Pieces of debris fly everywhere as you jolt in the van, holding your hand to your heart at the sudden movement as you curse under your breath.

“You good, sweetheart?” Enjin turns to you with a grin, and it does nothing but make your insides feel like jelly.

You should be used to it by now, the so called junk thrown discarded by the sky people like it’s nothing. Most of it salvageable, cookers with broken buttons that just needed a quick replacement, hairdryers with blown fuses.

Enjin had even gifted you a diamond ring he’d found one evening on one of his regular strolls. The silver band was pristine, and looked as though it had never been worn. A pretty glistening diamond set perfectly inside it, and not a single scratch on it despite the impact from the large drop. You wondered why anyone would ever throw something so perfect away, and then you saw it— A simple black speck that sat in the middle of the carbon. The smallest, most pathetic reason that it had been thrown into the pit in the first place. Because of course, why would anyone up in Heaven want anything less than perfect— But it was perfect to you. The pretty gem sat perfectly on your ring finger, despite the fact that Enjin hadn’t asked you to marry him. And the speck that was supposedly imperfect, reminded you of the friend who had gifted it to you.

You were just friends, after all. A subject of consistent teasing between the other Janitors.

“If you like someone, you should tell them.” Griss would look back from his position in the drivers seat to wink at you, just as Enjin is shouting at him to “Keep your eyes on the road, Bozo!”

“Yeah, it’s not good to keep those feelings bottled up inside.” Tamzy spoke coolly from the backseat.

“Would sure suck if the person you liked didn’t like you back, though.” Riyo chimed.

Exactly, Riyo. You thought to yourself, It would fucking suck.

And aside from a few flirty words from Griss, and one night where he’d seen red when a travelling merchant offered to buy you a drink in the local pub. Immediately appearing at your side to ward him off, the poor man leaving with a black eye and a bruised ego. “You don’t need to solve everything with violence.” Riyo mocked Enjin, who was pink in the cheeks. For the most part it almost felt like an unspoken rule that you were Enjin’s.

And it didn’t matter anyway, because you were content with this— whatever this was. And it wasn’t worth ruining the relationship you had with feelings, you were satisfied. And you could cope with satisfied if it meant keeping Enjin as a friend, certain not to ruin your relationship with the complication of romantic feelings.

Another loud crash had you snapping back to focus, a hail of trash began to pour down on the barren wasteland, things that by themselves would never have proved deadly. But with the acceleration of gravity, items were deadly as they left dents in the strongest of boulders.

“Fucks sake. We’ve gotta take cover,” Enjin’s tattooed hand shifted on the gearstick as he began to reverse the truck, narrowly missing a falling bathtub as it crashed against the ground.

“Shit,” You squealed, holding onto the dash as Enjin expertly manouvered through the trash storm.

“Hold on.” He veered left to avoid another shower of trash as it made the vehicle fall down a sand dune, skidding to the side as you began to panic. Watching more trash tumble down around you like rain.

“Enjin, look out—” You saw the falling car before he did, an old battered Sedan. How did they even manage to get that down here?

“I fuckin’ know, woman. I know—” He spat, yellow eyes catching it just after you as he swerved roughly. Glad you had your seatbelt on as your side banged into the car door, knocking your head against the glass as he took another harsh turn.

Finding refuge beneath an abandoned Eolian cave as the tires screeched to a stop, the roof of the truck dented but nothing Riyo wouldn’t be able to fix with a hammer when you both made it back to the compound.

“Baby, you okay?” Enjin unbuckled his belt to lean over the center console, cupping your face in both palms as he turns you to face him. Tilting your head to check for any injuries as you reached up to place a warm, sweaty palm around his wrist. Leaning into his touch as you finally allowed your heart to lull, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” You shook your head, “Wasn’t your fault.”

“We shoulda never been out here this late, it is all my fault.” He shook his head as you both heard the loud crash of trash and debris continue to fall along the wasteland.

“It’s not your fault, Enjin.” You shook your head, squeezing his wrist softly to try and focus his attention back on you, “We’re okay.”

“I’d have never forgiven myself if you got hurt,” He continued, shaking his head. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him this worried, “I never wanna lose you.”

There’s a subtle change in his movement, and if you hadn’t have been so close to him you would’ve missed it. It was the way his eyes flit down to your lips for the faintest of seconds before meeting your gaze again. The movement has your heart rattling against its cages, dragging a metal cup along the bars to be unleashed from its prison as you took a chance. Tilting your head slightly in Enjin’s palms to brush your lips against his in a chaste kiss. They felt chapped against your softer ones, eager to feel them again as you chanced another peck, this time lingering as you stepped over that blurry line of ‘just friends’.

“We shouldn’t.” Enjin grumbles, obviously fighting the voices in his head as he tries to ignore the blood flowing through his veins. The only voice of reason, as always.

You’re in no mood to talk, hungry for another taste of him as you move your hands to his face, fingertips sliding behind the pink tips of his ears as warm palms graze his stubble. The gentle tips of your fingers stroke the base of his neck as Enjin feels all of his resolve start to crumble the moment you bring him in again.

“Enjin,” You whine against his lips as his warm breath fans your face. He smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne, the scent suffocating and intoxicating at the same time as your half-lidded eyes stare back at him.

“Don’t,” Enjin groaned against your mouth, and yet he made no attempt to pull back, “If you do that I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“Who said I’ll want you to stop?” You replied simply, the taste of your chapstick now smeared against his lips as his tongue poked out to taste it. His nostrils flaring as he felt his entire body react to the implication of your words.

“Fuck it,” He grunts, tugging at your thigh as he pulls you over the center console. His grip firm on you as he positions you on his lap, perched on muscular thighs as you settle just before the semi-hard bulge beneath his pants. Slender fingers stroke along your back as he rests his forehead to yours, silently waiting for you to make your move. To push him away and tell him that you’re just friends; that you shouldn’t do this. But you don’t.

It’s carnal, the way you both paw at each other. Desperate to remove every barrier that stands between you both. Enjin’s long arms knock the top of the van as he tugs his shirt up and over his head, impatiently waiting for him to pull it high enough so you can reattach your lips to his. He’s like a drug you’ve become addicted to, desperate for another dose as your mouths clash together in a duel of tongues and teeth.

His fingers tug at the hem of your shirt roughly to remove it, swallowing the pathetic whine you make against his lips as you pull away for him to discard it. Leaning forward with more urgency as you kiss him again, tongue swiping against his top incisors as he palms your breasts through the simple black bra. The nights he’d spent awake fucking his fist to the thought of you would never compare to this, not in any lifetime.

Enjin pulls away from your bruised lips as you follow him forward, trying to reconnect them as he nudges your nose with his gently. Half-lidded eyes watch with amusement as he begins to pepper kisses along your jawline, following the curve down to the column of your throat as he begins to bite and suck at your pulse point. Another pitiful whine vibrates in your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck, caging his head between your forearms as you thread your fingers through his messy hair. Your clothed breasts practically in his face now as he ventures lower, pressing a kiss against your sternum as he nuzzles at your soft mounds gently, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra.

Gravity has your tits bouncing into position as he gently pulls the cups away, revealing your chest to his hungry gaze. It’s his turn to sound desperate now as he groans, low and guttural in his chest as he commits the sight to memory. Certain that if all else fails he’ll have this memory carved into his consciousness for the rest of his existence.

“God, you’re perfect.” He rasps, reaching out tentively to cup your warm tits as he thumbs your nipples, watching them pebble in the cool evening air as you throw your head back in pleasure, “What the fuck are you doin’ with a lowly janitor like me?”

You don’t get a second to answer before Enjin is leaning forward to take one of your nipples into his warm, wet mouth. His tongue swirls around your areola as he pinches and toys with the other, growling against your skin as your nails drag against his scalp in response.

“Fuck, Enjin.” You moan, rolling your hips as you feel the tent in his pants beneath you. His hard cock desperate to be released as your cunt throbs at the thought, eager to feel him after all this time.

“Don’t say my name like that, baby.” He groans, resting his cheek against your breast as he blows cool air against your spit-soaked nipple, “You’ll have me creaming my pants.”

“Enjin,” You ignore his plea as you roll your hips against him again, giving your clit more friction as you focus on the sensation.

“Fuck, you brat.” He grunts, gripping your hips in his palms roughly to stop you repeating the motion again. Positive that if you were to roll your heat against him one more time he would come undone.

“Want you so bad, Enjin. Please.” You choke, reaching between your bodies to paw at his belt. Your fingers toy with the worn leather as he takes pity on you enough to help, slender fingers brush yours away as he unbuckles it, tugging them down with his underwear just enough to free his aching cock.

It’s better than you expected, and your belly swirls with anticipation at the sight of him. What he lacks in girth he makes up for in length, the leaky cock head settles against his abdomen. Pre matts the messy blond hairs that follow a trail up to his bellybutton as the tip burns a fiery red. Swollen, angry and desperate for release as you wrap a palm around him. Making his hips buck wildly as you give a tentative stroke, catching the pre beading at the tip against your palm as you roll your wrist. Holding him straight as you look down between your bodies, watching where his length ends in comparison with your torso as you wonder if he’ll be so deep he’ll cum inside your guts.

Enjin becomes more restless now, impatient, as he bunches your skirt up around your hips. Groaning at the very evident wet patch that gleams against your panties as he presses a calloused finger against it, your eyes roll back into your skull as you feel him graze your clit.

“Oh, baby.” He hisses when your hand tightens around his girth, almost forgetting everything as you focus on the sensation of his fingers toying with you through the thin fabric, “Watch the nails.”

“S-ah, sorry,” You pant, loosening your grip as you follow the forking veins along him with the tips of your fingers.

“Gonna eat this sweet little pussy later, I promise.” He grunts, tugging your panties to the side as he watches your slick cling to the fabric, breaking off into silvery lines as he runs two fingers through your messy folds.

“Fuck, oh my god— Enjin,” Your hips rut pitifully at his touch. The sensation foreign but so satisfying as you seek it out again, whining as he circles the calloused pad of his index finger around your tight hole. Feeling the way it flutters around nothing as it tries to coax him in like a vindictive siren singing a final lullaby to a sailor.

Enjin breaches the gap and the sound that leaves your throat is downright debauched, causing his cock to jolt as he hooked his finger against your soft inner walls. It’s all too much, and simply not enough as you find yourself rolling your hips into his touch. Goading him to press his digit deeper as he feels just how wet and tight you are, certain that he’d never be able to replicate the feeling himself no matter how many Jinki he activated.

“You’re so pretty like this,” He murmurs, his thumb swipes your clit as he watches you try to ride his single finger.

“Enjin, don’t tease me,” You sigh breathlessly, wrapping your palm around his cock as it leaks fresh pre down the shaft. Drooling onto your fingers as you hold him upright, “I need you now.”

“I need to stretch you out, sweetheart.” He grunts, “I don’t wanna hurt you—”

“No, please Enjin,” You hover yourself over his length as you feel his leaky cock head graze your slit, “I want it to hurt.”

“Fuck,” His cock jumps at the lewd thought, wetting his lips with his tongue as his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

“I’ve got a rubber,” He continues, wondering whether the one sat neatly inside his wallet is even in date. He neglects you to turn towards the back of the van to seek out his coat, “But I don’t know if it’s in date—”

“Don’t need it,” You tighten your fist around his cock, causing his head to fall back against the headrest, eyes roll back as you brush the tip of his cock through your sloppy folds, “Just pull out, okay?”

And Enjin thinks that’s easier said than done when he finally feels the warmth of your wet cunt engulf him. You’ve barely taken his engorged tip and the heat is already scorching, searing into him as he watches your face contort in pleasure. Trying his hardest not to use his grip on your hips to impale you on his cock in one fell swoop.

You’re slowly sinking down onto him now and you can feel every delicious inch as you take more and more of him inside. Your unprepped walls throb and ache as they adjust to the stretch, feeling every ridge contour to him as you give a few shallow thrusts.

You already feel impossibly full with half, your chest so tight as though you can feel him in your throat. His calloused thumb presses soft figure of eights to your puffy clit to distract you, and honestly to distract him too as it takes every ounce of willpower not to force you down on his throbbing cock.

“Wanna feel every inch of you.” You whine, bending your head to look between your bodies as you take more of him. Feeling the messy hairs at the base of his cock tickle your clit as you know you’re almost fully seated, positioning your hands on broad shoulders for some semblance of reality as Enjin feels your walls shudder around him.

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you into the shape of my cock, sweetheart?” His words have your clit throbbing and your cunt convulsing as he grins. Neglecting your clit to hold onto the swell of your ass as he starts a savage pace, pulling you down onto his cock each time he ruts his hips up. Heavy balls slap against your ass with each movement, and you’re screaming obscenities.

Enjin’s never been more thankful that there’s no one around as he does nothing to quell your pretty sounds, instead he actively encourages them as he goads you on. Landing a harsh smack to your ass as he feels you clench around him.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” He coos, “You get yours—”

You’re practically using his body for your own pleasure as you roll your hips, his pubes tickle your clit with every forward motion as you cry out for him. Your hand splayed against the fogged window as the other buries sharp nails into his bare shoulder. Leaving red crescent-shaped moons in their wake as you grind against him, feeling the pleasure continuing to build in your abdomen.

There’s something sordid about watching you ride him, the subtle bounce of your tits as you roll your hips. Your thighs trembling as you struggle to maintain a steady pace, exerting all of your energy to try and pleasure yourself. A fact that really gets him off. Enjin takes pity on you, not leaving you to do all the work as he uses his grip to him you fuck yourself on his cock.

“God, look at you—“ Enjin sneers, though there’s no malice in it, “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He knows neither of you will last long, the pent up emotion shared between the two of you was unparalleled. So heightened that it was only a matter of time that it would reach boiling point and flood over. The fleeting glances and gentle touches not enough to quench the desire inside you both, as it left you craving more.

But he’s not going to concede to you so easily, slipping a black painted nail between your bodies as he thumbs your clit, pressing the palm of his hand against your pelvis so he can feel himself inside you. Watching the way your lashes flutter as you throw your head back in pleasure, your hand sliding against the fogged glass as your climax surges through you. Enjin keeps his thumb consistent against your clit we you lean back, throbbing around his cock as you ride out your bliss. There’s nothing but white hot pleasure blanketing your vision and making your brain fuzzy as you try to remember to breathe.

“God, you look so pretty when you cum.” He almost sighs, giving your clit a final sloppy circle before pulling away to hold your hips. Fingertips dip into your plush skin as he cherishes the way you pulse around him, giving himself a moment as he almost loses it too early. Terrified of finishing too soon and never having the chance to do this again—

His strengthens his grip on your hips, tilting your body back as he fucks you with renewed vigour. Selfishly seeking out his own climax as your back is pressed against the wheel, the horn blares in the background as you accidentally nudge it but neither of you seem to care. Your breasts bounce from the ferocity of his movements, his skin sticking to the worn leather seat every time his hips cant back but he still doesn’t stop.

“I’m gonna pull out, sweetheart.” He groans, lifting your body to reluctantly slip his cock from your warmth. Enjin knows if he doesn’t do it now, he never will. Perfectly content with fisting himself all over your skin.

“No, please don’t pull out, Enjin,” You clench around him, trying to keep him lodged inside you as your thighs tighten on either side of him, “Wanna feel you.”

“We can’t— I shouldn’t,” He presses, but there’s no real argument there. Not when your warm cunt coaxed him back in so eagerly, “I’m gonna cum, baby.”

“Just cum inside me.” You reply as though it’s the most simple answer in the world.

“Ah, shit.” He grunts, your saccharine tone the final straw as his hips spasm. Unable to control the pleasure burning in his pelvis as his balls seize. His grip on your hips almost painful, certain to leave bruises in their wake as he fucks into you with renewed vigour. Both of you focused on each other as Enjin gives a few more frantic pumps inside your warm, wet cunt before he meets his own end.

“Fuck— gonna cum, shit.” He grunts as he pumps rope after rope of spunk inside your trembling walls, painting them white. His hips jerkily fuck it into you with a few more sloppy thrusts as you feel the warmth of it engulf you, your chest heaves as you try to come down from your high.

You both settle in silence, the only sound is the falling debris just outside the cave as the storm continues to rage. And your steady breath breathing together in tandem as Enjin’s fingers stroke slow absentminded patterns against your exposed skin.

You make the most adorable whine as Enjin pulls you up off his softening cock, wincing at the wet feeling of his release now drooling onto his inner thighs and the floor of the van as he pulls your chest against his. Your arms weave around his shoulders as you bury your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him as you bask in the afterglow.

“I didn’t think you wanted me like that,” You mumble against his collarbone, voice barely a whisper as you toy with one of his earrings.

“What?” Enjin tilts his head back slightly, turning to the side to try and meet your gaze as you shyly hide away, warm palms stroking your back, “How could I not want you like that?”

“I guess it’s just been so long,” You continue, “I just started to think maybe you just thought I was a friend.”

“I never really thought I had to say it,” Enjin shrugged, “You’ve always just kinda been mine in my head. Even if you weren’t officially mine.”

“So you’ve never wanted anyone else?” You were terrified of his answer, worried about all the women out there that were definitely prettier than you, smarter, funnier.

“Sweetheart, there would only ever be one girl I’d wanna give a diamond ring to.” He grins, pressing a wet sloppy kiss to your cheek.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Stolen Angel - Part 3

Demon!Jake Seresin x reader

Summary: You thought you were having a one-night stand with some random, normal guy. Turns out he’s a winged, demon-like stalker who has been obsessed with you for years.

Warnings/Notes: Jake is a little dark. Kidnapping. Manipulation. Obsessive behavior. I’m sure there are typos. This used to be a different fic for August Walker, so if you see it, it’s fine. I wrote that one too.

Words: 1426

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

JAKE POV - (One Year Ago)

He can’t stop watching you. Smiling, laughing, serving customers caffeinated beverages on their way to work. The sunlight streams through the front glass window of the cafe, the rays illuminating everything of you that they reach. Your hair, your eyes, your skin. You’re bright, happy, healthy, stunning, and it does unreasonable things to his heart.

He’s been sitting there for two hours now, not even pretending to occupy himself with a magazine or newspaper or anything that will make him less conspicuous. You’re the only thing that has his attention. The only thing that ever has his attention when he comes to this world. He spends this time, each second of it, observing your every move, memorizing every feature of your face, and when you leave for the day, he follows. Just so he can be a little bit closer to you.

You’ve never noticed him, and sometimes he chuckles at your lack of awareness and how well it works in his favor. You have no idea that he trails you from the cafe to your apartment. You have no idea that he stands outside your building as night cloaks the day. You have no idea that he leans against the same lamppost he always does when he comes to see you, his stare latched on to your window—third floor, second from the left—as you strip yourself of your uniform and into your pajamas. He’d watch forever if he could, but he, and those like him, do not have that luxury. 

The hand that lands on Jake’s shoulder is expected and he turns his head to his friend. 

“Time to go,” Javy says. “In a month you can come back and stalk her some more, but we’re cutting it close. We have to get back.”

Jake sighs, giving your bedroom window another glance. The light clicks off. “I know.”

“She’s not going anywhere. I’ve kept an eye on her in your absence and she’s had the same routine for the last six months,” Javy reminds him as he rolls his shoulders, preparing for the weight of his wings to return. 

Cartilage and bone materialize as his gray feathers, one by one, seek him out from the spot he had shed them. Each one returns to their place, layering themselves together until his wings are fully reformed. 

Javy gives them a testing flap, scattering the fallen leaves at their feet. When he sees Jake has yet to call for his own wings, he huffs. “Seriously, it’s eleven fifty-six. Do you really want to spend six months in The Tower because you chose to stare at your little girlfriend rather than be punctual…again? You literally just got out.”

Jake stands from his leaned position and a moment later his black feathers find him. He spreads his wings out in a stretch. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Javy says with pride. “So let’s go.” Then he’s shooting up into the night, a speck in the darkened sky. 

Jake takes one last look at your window, imagining himself in that apartment, holding you, kissing you, falling asleep beside you. He doesn’t want to leave you behind. Leaving you behind is leaving a part of his heart behind. But he has to do it. For the night, you’re warm and safe tucked in your bed, and that will have to be enough for him until his return next month.

“Good night, Angel,” he mutters. “Sleep well.” Then he follows after his friend.

—

Food everywhere. Grapes smashed in between the stones of the walls; plums dotting the floor, one having rolled under the bed; juice from apple slices staining the rumpled bedsheets; the silver tray, now dented in the middle, thrown across the room. All as if some bratty tornado tore through the place. Except now the brat is missing. 

He’d guessed you would struggle to stay put once you regained enough of your energy, which is exactly why he'd planned to sit by your bed while you slept. But—albeit very reluctantly—he had listened to Javy’s advice about giving you some space for the night. A mistake, clearly, because now he has to hunt his little escapee down.

Shaking his head, Jake rubs the back of his neck and gives the room one last scan in case you got the bright idea to hide until he got close enough for you to whack him in the skull with something hard. When the assault doesn’t come, he jogs to the window and peers through it the way you were when he found you standing there the other day, your pearly wings in all their grandness cascading gracefully from your back. 

Glancing to the nearby field many stories below, he spots you seated in the grass with your knees tucked to your chest. His pounding heart stutters in relief.

How the fuck did you get out, Angel? he thinks as he hurries from the room, down the multiple twisting staircases, and through the maze of halls. You’re the last person who should have the ability to leave this place. New residents of The Tower have been known to roam the halls for months at a time, trying to find a way out until they surrender to exhaustion and return to their rooms, and yet you walked right out the front door?

When he reaches the main floor, he stops short at the silhouetted figure leaning against the doorframe. He knows that figure well, and realizing that someone he trusts has been keeping an eye on you from a reasonable distance permits Jake to take a calming breath before he steps closer. 

“She’s…content, I think,” Javy says, tucking back his large gray wings to provide enough space for Jake to comfortably stand beside him. “Doesn’t seem to want to run off.”

“Only because she doesn’t know where to go,” Jake sighs, running his fingers through his hair. And thank fuck for that. “How long has she been out here?”

“At least since four. That's when I found her,” Javy informs him. He looks at Jake, playfully grinning. “We watched the sunrise together.”

“Has she seen you?”

“No. She hasn’t so much as turned her head in hours,” he answers, then after a pause of consideration, says, “How do you think she managed to make it out on her first try?”

Jake shakes his head. He has that very same question. Anyone would. “I don’t know, but had I known she could, I would have locked the damn door.”

“Maybe The Tower felt bad for her,” Javy suggests. “You know she always made it easy for the unfairly imprisoned.”

Unfairly imprisoned. Yes, Jake supposes that is what you are. But it’s not for forever, and it’s simply to protect you while you adjust to your new life by his side. Surely, you can understand that. And then you can start accepting the happiness and love you’re denying yourself. 

“She fucking scared me,” Jake says, and Javy snickers.

“Then I imagine you're even.”

“She's not scared of me, she just has to get used to me.” Jake watches the gust of air flutter your feathers. You still haven’t moved, save for one hand's fingers which continuously weave through the blades of grass. “She's taking her damn time though.”

“Don't be unfair. She's known you for a couple of weeks—a couple of very difficult weeks—which is nothing compared to the head start you had.” Also true, to Jake’s dislike. But he’s shown you how much he cares, and that should be plenty to help you catch up. Then Javy says, “You should take her back. Just for a few hours.”

Jake’s head snaps to the right, eyes just short of bugging from his head. “Are you insane?”

Javy shrugs. “The day is coming up. It might be easier for her to be here with you if she knows she has the option to visit her world.”   

“That’s not her world anymore.” 

“True,” Javy agrees. “But don't you miss seeing her smile?”

Jake swallows. He’d give anything to see you smile again; smile at him again. Though he was gifted one when he was deep inside of you, praising you, telling you how beautiful you were, offering the same compliment since he brought you here has not elicited the same reaction. If anything, you frown more intensely, with more effort. 

“It's too soon,” Jake says. “She's still attached, and I can't trust her.”

“It's more important that she trusts you,” Javy counters. “And this could be your olive branch, my friend.”

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @b-bradshaw @fandom-life-12 @hookslove1592 @buckysteveloki-me

[loveshotzz]

All I Really Want Is You

older!neighbor!widower! steve x fem!reader chap four/ten - a slow burn series of blurbs - updated every wednesday

Good Morning & Goodnight

summary: Your first night out with friends ends when Steve’s work day begins.

wc: 1.2k

warnings: 18+ series for future chapters, we’re a hot mess but Steve loves it.

authors note: It’s a shorty! I can’t believe we’re almost half way through. 🥹 this is a stepping stone chapter for the next one but it doesn’t mean that I didn’t at least give you something 😉

🌇 chapter three <- -> chapter five

The Masterlist/The Playlist/The tune:

Middle of June - 6:15am Monday Morning

Free drinks with your coworkers at the bar after close seemed like a great idea, until you were stumbling out of the club with a few of the other girls at dawn. Birds chirp loudly into the fuschia sky, mocking the hangover that was sure to hit as soon as your stomach processed the breakfast sandwich you ate on the train ride home. 

The dull throb of your dehydration headache starts rearing its annoying head once you hit your street, your platform sandals dragging against the sidewalk. You can feel the way your eyeliner starts making your lashes stick with every slow sleepy blink of your eyes. Throat dry, all you can think of is your Brita in the fridge and how much you hope you refilled it last night. 

“Howdy neigh- oh, honey.” 

Your eyes widen when you hear the voice of the last person you want to see you like this. but you know there’s nowhere to hide when you reach your gate right as Steve’s leaving his. Meeting his gaze sheepishly, you can feel the heat rise up your neck and cheeks. You remember the blurry image of your smeared make up in the club bathroom mirror a few hours ago.

“Hi Steve.” You give him a small wave, embarrassment making you kick the sidewalk with the toe of your sandal.

“Fun night?” He smirks, pulling his Raybans on top of his head and pushing the hair out of his face. Specks of gray stand out on the sides in the fresh new light. His face is clean shaven, a crisp white dress shirt fitting tight across his chest, the outline of the tank top underneath visible. It brings you back to the way it clung to his muscles in your kitchen last week.

“Yeah, actually it was.” You use the last of your strength to form a smile, immediately wincing when you do and he has to stifle a laugh.

“I’m glad to hear it, although I do hope you don’t work today.” He reaches down adjusting the belt around his waist, before shoving a hand in his black dress slacks leaning against the gate with the other. His silver watch is just as shiny as his shoes. 

“No I’m of -“ your voice cracks, making you clear your throat and suddenly the sun is extra bright. “No, I’m off today.”

“Good and please tell me you have ibuprofen up there?” Genuine worry paints his handsome features, he knew what a first Chicago hangover was like. It takes all of his will power not to work from home so he can check up on you the rest of the day.

“Yes, I’m not completely useless in taking care of myself you know?” You don’t mean for it to sound so snippy, but the hangover is getting the best of you and getting words out feels like knives to your skull. 

His eyebrows raise, a little shocked before his face relaxes with a warm smile. A silent understanding.

“I didn’t mean it like that tough girl.” He straightens up with rosy cheeks.

“I’m sorry, that was rude. I’m just really tired and Ubers were like a million dollars -“ You can hear how your words start to shake, the lack of sleep finally catching up with you.

He steps forward on instinct, arms starting to outstretch in a hug, only to stop once his brain connects with the movements of his body. Maybe it was the little bit of alcohol still left in your system that makes you bold enough to meet him in the middle, but there is no turning back when your arms snake around his waist. 

The muscles in his abdomen flex against your touch, and you feel him freeze up for a second before pulling you tight into his chest. The aftershave and cologne are overpowering against your senses, but you don’t care, inhaling deeply. He rubs a soothing palm down the dip of your spine with just enough pressure to make you sigh.

“I know, it feels like death,” he chuckles, “Go get some sleep okay honey?” His words come out soft against the top of your head before he gives the sides of your arms a squeeze pulling back just enough to see your face.

You want to kiss the two moles that sit side by side on his cheek, especially when he looks at you like this.

“Sorry for the dramatics at 6:30 in the morning.” You can’t help but giggle, brushing away the glitter that rubbed off onto his clean shirt. 

The way he smiles with all his teeth tells you he could care less.

“Hey, you might not believe it but I used to have many nights like this way back when, alright?” He gets the eye roll that makes his whole day, and he has to resist the urge to pull you in for another hug.

“Suuuure grandpa,” you tease — his affection enough to make you feel like a functioning person even if just for a few minutes.

He scoffs with fake offense before he gives you one of those winks that makes you weak in the knees, and for a second you think he might kiss your forehead.

“Alright, I need to get to work and you need to go to bed. Don’t be a stranger if you need anything later okay?” He rubs up and down your arms before finally stepping back and you wish he’d just come lay with you. 

You muster a nod before straightening out your wrinkled dress, shyness coming back when he slips his sunglasses back on. Why did he always have to look so good?

“Have fun at work, I promise I won’t die. I just need some water and a shower.” You try and wave off his worry as you make your way through your gate.

“You better not. Bandit would be very upset about losing his new best friend.” It’s his turn to get sheepish. “Me too.”

It doesn’t hurt when you smile this time.

“You have my word Steve.” You put your palm against your heart in a vow just for him.

“That’s my girl.” He grins, twirling his keys before catching them in hand, finally turning around to go to his car and leaving you a mess on your front steps.

That’s my girl. 

The words play in your head on a loop while you shower, when you drink your bodyweight in water, and as you take enough ibuprofen to give you an ulcer. They haunt your dreams when your body gives into sleep and your headache finally subsides.

A loud knock on your front door wakes you from the kind of sleep that leaves you with a sore throat and a foggy brain. The sun is lower in the sky that shines through the crack of your new curtains, your clock reading 6:05 pm in glaring red letters when your eyes catch the time. 

You can barely pick your feet off the ground when you shuffle to the door, a yawn loud enough to hear over the whir of the A/C. You unlatch the dead bolt, and when you open to see what’s on the other side, you’re reminded of his words from earlier that felt like a lifetime ago. They make you feel special again like they did at six in the morning despite the roll of your eyes, your lips twitch when you read the note that’s attached to the Doordash hangover cure from your handsome neighbor.

beta’d by @superblysubpar

dividers by @newlips

🌇 -> chapter five

[thenighthekate]

Am I the one you want ( t.k. )

This little thing, once proud in love and lust, now hides its face and soon it will be dust.

Her hair was wild, flying around in the wind. Her eyes closed, her back arched, the window rolled down as they sped on the highway. It was late at night, the moon already shining for hours, casting a silver glow above the streets. Stars twinkled in the dark sky, the small light specks reflecting in his eyes.

She turned to look at him, a small smile pulled her lips, a childish look on her face. Her hand reached out to touch his thigh, his gaze suddenly turning from the road to look at her. Tom matched her expression, his own fingers travelling to her head, gently taking a strand of hair and putting it behind her ear.

" Watch where you're going." Her soft voice sounded over the roaring of the car and the radio wich was playing a random tune.

" Don't worry about it." He said with a light laugh, his eyes shifting ahead of him for just a second. She let out a hum, turning back to look out the open window.

Hills and mountains flashed by them, his car speeding further up. It felt like they were getting closer to the sky, the cold night air hitting them in their faces, for a moment it felt like they would reach the clouds.

They came to a stop not far from the drop of the hill, plants littering the area. She opened the door and got out, rocks and sand turning underneath her feet as she walked closer to the edge, her arms folding and holding herself around her waist. She felt calm, the sort of calmness you would feel at the world's end, no backing out.

Tom walked closer to her frame, his chest hitting her back, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She could feel his breath meet her neck, his nose inching closer only to be nuzzled in her hair. Light kisses were left on her skin, their bodies swaying left to right.

" When are you going to be all mine?" It came out as a whisper, so quiet and pure he almost didn't catch it. He thought they were done with this conversation, he thought he had answered all the life questions that were clouding her mind.

With a slightly annoyed sigh he stepped back from her warmth, his feet carrying him back to the car, his body leaning against the shiny exterior as he shuffled around his pockets. She turned to look at him, frown upon her face, her eyebrows scrunched and sad eyes staring up at him. " It's not as simple as you think." A cigarette sat comfortably between his lips, a hand cupping the end while he sparked a flame to light it. " Even if I bring up divorce now it's not gonna be another year till I'm single." His tone shifted, now becoming a full dad voice.

The voice was the one he used often, whenever she didn't get something his whole demeanor would switch. Honestly it made her feel small, stupid in the worst scenarios.

" You could give peace a chance for once." She watched as smoke swirled around his head, through the gray clouds his piercing eyes still throwing daggers in hers.

" You're young, have the world in your hands. You should live."

" You're calling me delusional for wanting you?" With every word that left her mouth she stepped closer, poison flowing freely from her lips.

Yet another sigh sounded out from the man in front of her, his forehead creasing, trying to see the girl's mind. " It's not easy for me either, but if I do it now it's gonna create a lot of drama." The cigarette was long forgotten, only the ashy bud was laying on the ground beneath them. " You know I love you, right?" She was at an arm reach, his words thick like honey pulling her closer and sticking her common sense into a bundle. With his arms around her waist, they're noses were almost touching, sharing the same air in between them.

Her lashes fluttered for a second before she nodded, big eyes staring up into the face of her lover.

She knew this cycle would continue, she knew his heart was split between her and the woman who could actually show him off. The woman who got to sleep next to him every night, the woman whose arms he'll always run back to. It was toxic, she knew it. She knew that the older man infront of her would only bring pain, love for a night and an aching heart for the rest of the week. She was stupid, naive, far too young to be expecting to be his first choice.

Part two Part three

[howyouloveyourdragon]

Remnants

pronouns: she/her warnings: smut, use of the word ‘whore’, angst, disease, character death, fluff, infidelity, slowburn, classism at first (daemon is a shit) summary: They say that you never forget your first love but the vultures are prey to weakness and intend to infiltrate Daemon’s own desires to preserve his adere riñus (slippery girl). Some say the woman will forever remain in his conscience, guiding his bloodied sword and singing sweet lost lullabies to lay his rest. For it has been too long since the volatile dragon slept peaceful. A prince with more gold than he can keep. A prince who can demand whatever he wishes and command any army. And yet all he is left with…All he is left with are the remnants of her which he swore to cherish as religiously as he would an idol. A/N: reader has dark hair for a plot point to work but i think you can still ignore it if you want to :) dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 6,797

There is nothing like a sunset that is more comforting to him and yet his comfort is limited. How he stares at the strewn stars like figments of grace and kind. How he stares each as though in the eye and recounts sonnets as they emit. How he begs and pleads for the Gods to last the warmth of sunlight just a little longer each time. And each time it fades. Each time his eyes grasp any trace of her to sew back into his mind after it has been torn from him with viscous delight. He should have known. The Gods do not listen to begging. Not even from Crown Princes. No matter how many bottles he shatters in the heat of his dreams. He likes to think that their love was red and as flowing as his ever-heating dragon’s blood. A Syrax in its own right. But there was no Goddess of ecstasy blessing them. No. It was a curse of bluebells and belonging to that of Gaelithox, surely to punish him for his foolishness. He looks up at the sky. The dark array of black and blue. Of silver specks and promising folds of purple. There is nothing like a sunrise better to send the Rogue Prince into a spiel of decay and sickness. The absurd golden bonds squeezing out another day like an artist with their last inch of oils. The crawling brightness that comes to threaten the moon. Abysmal lies sung to him as his brother attempts to push him into seeing beauty in all that inductees his churning stomach. 

He wills the flowers to wither. 

It was under the rising sun that Daemon had stumbled and forced his way out of the obnoxious hooting Street of Silk. Perhaps he had been desiring only ale or the rancid smell of sweat to intoxicate him. At just two and twenty, he had been visiting the volatile heap of taverns and brothels for the past eight years. It was religious in his dark desires. For dragons did not obey the whims of men and Daemon did not obey the whims of his brother nor father. And certainly not the whims of his wife. His nose turns up at the thought. Marriage would not contain him like they desired and yet still, he receives the constant demands to visit her. Of course he only intends to sink them in water until soft enough to shred, rejecting their presence all together. It would be easier to burn them but he does not think them worthy of his flame. His begrudging circle had even begun threatening to hail her to the Red Keep. To keep her in his presence all torturous times of the day. He knows his mother wouldn’t have let this happen, surely. Never would she sell him like prize cattle just to tame him. He is a dragon does not fuck plain featured sheep, he burns them but he would not devour them like his brother wished. His tastes were precise and he would not settle. He is a prince. He deserves nothing less than a woman matching his silver strands. Which is what he thinks of as he stumbles through the dark night struck streets, hopefully back to the castle gates at least. He despised people seeing him in such a state but he could usually hold his liquor better than tonight. And he assures himself that all will be well…until his cloak catches on a hook and he crashes to the floor in a surge of red blurred vision. 

He blinks awake the next morrow with a pounding headache the size of Caraxes. A wince cracks at his muscles. Daemon grunts, a rough sting along his left cheekbone. A blur of dark hair and feminine presence has him assuming he had fallen asleep in the whorehouse again but instead his eyes flit across the plain room, brows pinching at the plain room. It is unfamiliar, he realises. His lips part in time for a resounding click of the unknown woman's fingers to snap him into alert. Anger swells in his chest but his limbs are weakened with exhaustion and ale. His sharp eyes choose to narrow instead as quickly as she takes a step. His brain swishes with questions. Where is he, why is he here and most importantly, who is this already insufferable cunt of a peasant? "You." He sneers, clicking his own fingers but she ignores him, returning to a small room he presumes to be a...kitchen? It is small and brown and littered with pans, some empty, some filled. "Tell me, who are you?" It is a demand. They both know it is a demand and yet it goes ignored. Rage firms his brittle state. "Answer your prince!" He stands on slightly shaky legs, uncaring to his indecent layer of clothing, or rather, lack of. His tunic...Where is his tunic? It isn't panic that raises the bile but it is discomfort. The odd woman merely chuckles at him. Anger flares once more. Daemon's swift hand snaps to his scabbard only to find it empty. "Relax, your highness," He doesn't like the mocking lilt seeping from her untrustworthy tongue. "it will be returned to you, I merely made certain you would not awaken with a missing appendage." His face scowls petulantly at her and he takes a step forward. 

Daemon builds up his broad shoulders to square though he is not entirely a man full-grown yet and his boyish features attempt to harden. Intimidation is a powerful tool he knows. "You will hand me my possessions and I will take leave far from your slums or I will–" She spins around, facing him not with fear or mal-intent but with curiosity. Her sly smirk is the first thing he notices alongside her narrowed fox-like eyes. “Or what?” She returns, impishly .His mouth hangs. She had been washing one of her thick pans but now she has tucked the pathetic wet towel into her small apron and folds her arms. The pan is left forgotten on the side after a loud clang. She raises her brows. “Or what, your highness?” She repeats as though he is nothing more than the village idiot or town fool. Begrudgingly he has never felt more like a child, not even after marrying the bronze bitch. Daemon’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She snorts. “Will you harm a sweet village girl? Add blood to your taxes? Ah, apologies, my lord, you are no foe of such demands, you are the taker.” The snide doesn’t pass him. “No girl is of worth to a Dragon.” He says, finally regaining composure. She doesn’t cower, she sneers. “In that we can agree.” Her voice, once mellifluous and playful, now turns cold. “Except the ones fucking dragons and I assure you, I have no intentions.” He swallows, noticing just how close they have approached once the hit of warm breath fans over his mouth which towers just above her. He ignores when his eyes flicker to her wet lips. How can a peasant look so nourished? 

Daemon may ignore it but the peasant does not, her lips slowly curling upward smugly. She hums as she takes in his dilated pupils now wielding more than just rage. Slowly, her calloused hand begins to dip into her apron pocket. In a flash, his palm snatches her wrist and rips it out of reach. She blinks, slightly disoriented, but then raises her brows comically. “Do you not wish me to return your sword, my lord?” She lilts, Daemon’s face softens. “I am your prince, not your lord.” He snarls. Again, her sickening chuckles lift in the stale air. “You are an ingrate that we are all in service to, my prince. Do you wish for your dagger or not?” He hesitates. Who is to determine that she is not attempting to fool him? That she will not snipe his weapon and slice it through his throat; would she leave him bleeding on her floor or scatter him amongst the mongrels of flea bottom? Daemon casts his eyes at her apron. She sighs, allowing his thick fingers to swipe through the various utensils stashed away. The prince grunts when he makes contact with a blade, groaning behind his taut lips. He slides it out once he finds the hilt and dances it between his fingers like a peacock presents its feathers. A smirk twitches. 

The peasant girl sighs, unamused as he watches the shining steel. “Do you intend to frolic through the streets and freeze?” She asks with a thin layer of mocking. His eyes narrow on the blade. “No,” He articulates in a frozen phrase. “You will lead me to the garments you have stolen from me and in return I shall allow your pitiful life to remain.” It isn’t a chuckle that escapes her this time but instead a snort. His nose wrinkles at the unabashed noise. “Will I?” She returns, biting the inside of her cheek. Daemon lets a glower settle, breath heaving at the disrespect. He clenches his jaw. “You will or you will taste your own blood.” Daemon spouts the words, attempting to poison her flesh, he can already imagine the boils that would litter her soft skin. The peasant merely winks. “It wouldn’t be for the first time but I am afraid that it would be in your best interests that you stay a moment more.” She sighs as though the fact physically pains her. A hand sneaks behind her back, which connects against the rough counter edge, and produces a small wooden bowl, heat emitting in steam from the top. “Would you not prefer to break your fast before you leave? A weak prince is not a wise one.” 

He leans down, sneering. “I am not weak.” She leans up at him and tilts her head. “Then how do you know I was talking about you?” She pushes the strange broth to his chest and slips past him once his confusion lessens his hold on her other wrist. His head snaps to face her figure again. “You are an insinuating little tart.” Daemon comments but much less interrogative than before. He eyes the broth cautiously as he takes a seat at her short stocky table. His legs plead for freedom under the trapment. He ignores them. The girl glances him over and he can feel the scrutiny piercing his skin, ready to seep inside. Begrudgingly, the heir seats himself at the small table of her home and huffs like a petulant child.  The threat of judgement crawls like an insect over his tense muscles, it feels like twenty-thousand little cockroaches are bumping one another from the inside of his skin. It begs to clamber into the strange peasant instead, what does a peasant fair against a prince? She must know that it would be further than a sin to place judgement on a Targaryen prince while she is nothing more than a lowly film of dirt atop his shoe; filth he is desperately trying to scrape off until his hands are raw and bloody. 

His eyes take this moment to rake over and through her as she stumbles around the much too small hobble. Her hair reminds him of toiled waves, crashing messily and unkempt–even though it is tied up–against the harsh wind sneaking through her window. Her apron is dirtied and there is flour on her face. She looks every inch the commoner he despises. Because she thinks she’s better than him, he’s sure, he can see it in her smugness, her eagerness to keep him dependent on her already. She has a vile brown dress beneath it, his skin itches just looking at the rough worn-in cloth. The prince’s eyes trail to her bare feet, he winces but attempts to ignore it, glancing over the muddy wet end to the dress. He lets a sigh release and shakes his head, inspecting the rest of the abode. Just looking at her made him long to cleanse himself. Daemon’s nose turns up at the sight of a myriad of blue wilting flowers in the corner, well he supposes to her it is reminiscent of a myriad. Her. Why is it her mind, her thoughts, that he wants to explore like the depths of the great sea he has always been kept from? Then his eye catches on the deep red cloth that drapes along a lone wooden chair. His eyes narrow. Is it stolen? She doesn’t look as though she could afford such vibrancy. Or perhaps she is a whore and it was gifted by a client. That must be it. She’s a whore. Daemon clicks his tongue and looks down at the half-eaten broth. He stirs at the odd liquid, raising the too large spoon and pouring the broth back in the bowl before dipping it back in again. It takes all his willpower to stuff it into his cheeks and let it play on his tongue. 

He swishes it across his taste buds. Daemon wants it to be foul, he wants it to reek of vomit-inducing grossness. It is a childish word but he is running out of insults. His hope also falls flat because for some reason it tastes good. It tastes better than any soup the high paid cooks have ever offered him, it tastes almost better than any rich meal he’s consumed. His eyes narrow. Is she a witch? Is this set to bewitch him or send him into sleep? No, it makes him feel much too energised. Then is it to gain his favour? Constituted to trick his submission? She will not achieve it, he refuses. He finishes the lukewarm meal while taking his time. He watches her hum and shimmy about the room, searching for something he does not know. He scans her curiously. “My garments.” He states in demand, standing and approaching her swiftly. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even stop humming. She moves about a few thick books, all handwritten and all with olden pages–yellow with use. 

His fist rests sideways against the presumably oak bookcase so he can lean over her, forearm following suit. He wants it to reflect dominance but instead it twists his gut and warms his lower stomach. “You have something that belongs to me,” Daemon purrs. His eyes narrow. His free palm outstretches. “I want it back.” “I have more than one thing, milord.” The snark drips from her tongue with charisma he loathes. His jaw clenches at the forced display. “Then return them and I shall return this.” Her eyes snap up to him and frown at the sealed letter in his grasp. Daemon can see as the panic swells and tenses her muscles, he can see as she takes in an inhale sharper than Dark Sister, he can see as her eyes widen because Daemon is not merely a swordsman and soon-warrior; Daemon Targaryen is also an observer. The peasant girl swallows. “Very well.” She chokes out and he finds himself surprised to have won this game of cat and mouse. Of dragon and sheep. Almost disappointed. The prince nods and steps back but as she prepares to swipe it from his hands and pulls it back with a visibly pensive expression. “I will give it to you once you return my possessions.” Eyes meet and again, his gut twists. She tilts her head, guard seemingly lowered. “How curious,” She breathes out. Daemon’s brows knit. “What?” He questions. “You said possessions not belongings. Most would use the latter.” 

When he eventually does return to the castle, fully clothed and prepared to sleep off the remainder of his disturbed night, He keeps a firm stance and intends to forget the strange day so far but his mind circles the events like a fly. Daemon growls as he shrugs off his shirt to replace it with one of pure white and tosses the prior into a drawer. He roughly grasps a red doublet in his hands and tugs it over. His breath comes out in grunts and curses until he is redressed. It is the same shade as the peasant girl’s cloth, of course it is. It was his favourite until today and now childishly, it feels tainted by the resurging memories of humiliation being sewn inside. His nose scrunches up, a grotesque taste rubbing against his tongue as he recalls one incident in particular. The prince, a man to be respected, can visualise as he was shoved to a thin mattress and tossed up the mix of bile and sickness from his stomach. All. Over. Her. Floorboards. Daemon winces and shakes his head, trying to shake the memory into the deepest depths of his subconscious, never to be seen again. He sighs and turns around, pausing when a slight fluttering falls as soft as a petal from his trouser. He frowns and peers down at the paper. There sits a thin parchment, not unlike the letter he had returned to the peasant girl. This one however is in cursive words much more eloquent than the past one and written in a phrasing he’s unsure of. He looks at the wax seal this time. It’s blue and the paper around it is curled. Daemon glances over the creases. Perhaps his business is not yet forgoing. 

A moon passes before he finally returns through the winding streets, trying to recall the pattern in which he returned home, backward. Daemon finds himself humming a tune to which he should not be familiar with but it is the only thing that consumes his mind as he passes through the Street of Flour. Finally, he reaches a small doorway and raps at it. No one answers to which he sighs and takes a step back, peeking through the opening of his hooded cloak at the abundance of civilians. Daemon’s eyes dart amidst the unknown area and his feet follow, investigating a series of yells and glances one last time at the door. The street is in uneven bumps and the people there are clumped together as they holler and whistle. Daemon halts his tune and uses his substantial height to attempt to see over the large mass of bodies. He can barely make out the sight of steam and two large wooden stands. The hollers burst through his ears like pellets of rain, forceful and punishing as a storm. 

Then a familiar voice is raised above the others, a mock resounding in his ears but with the playfulness and wit of a friend. His violet eyes snap up to find the woman haunting him. She’s laughing raucously, obnoxious and loud. Daemon’s lips slightly twitch at the teeth she bares. Again, his gut stirs. The heat becomes smothering but that doesn't stop him in his pursuit in finding the peasant girl who he now sees tossing around a pan filled with water and meat. From the brief glances he can snatch up, she’s almost finished while a man beside her is kneading a similar meat lined in fresh pink. Daemon pulls his lips taut, tensing as he watches the show. His little peasant seems to be enjoying herself. Witch, he thinks briefly but she doesn’t look like a witch and nor does she particularly sound like one. Are witches not supposed to be tantalising and hibernate an illusion of raw sex? Of primal appeal to tempt him? She doesn’t appear to be trying very hard. The flour is gone from her face now, he notes, but in its place lays a curved slice, colour as deep as that of Dornish wine. If she is a witch, would she not surely cover it? The hiss of her heated pan hisses throughout the street and Daemon finds himself surprised that no one has stolen from the small bag of coins in the centre. 

A cacophony of enjoyment and not one has a trail of bitterness. He watches as the girl glides a hand around her neck to push back the hair escaping its tight wrap atop her head. Only joy amongst the miserable. Perhaps that should worry him but he is too enthralled in the display. The woman’s hair is tied high again but much clearer than the moon prior–the day he last saw her. She is still wearing the same rags but this time that revolting red cloth is wrapped around her shoulders like a shaul. Not a whore either then. A whore would not be parading her squeals for free and nor would she wish to wear rags when surely many men had solicited them. So she is not a witch and not a whore and yet he finds himself stalking after her presence like an injured pup. Daemon growls at the very thought. He is a prince. How many times must he remind himself? Princes do not chase after strange peasant girls. The scolding floats through the wind when the peasant girl cheers and hurls the pan down on the wooden market stand. Her opponent groans half-heartedly, grinning like a mad man as he stretches out his arms and embraces the girl, one rough large hand resting to cup the back of her head and his other reaching to slap her back like Daemon has seen other knights behave. But this is not a knight, this is a peasant. The fact twitches his nose in distaste. But so is she. A voice whispers in his ear, he swats it away, watching as the surrounding peasants cheer. 

Daemon watches as the children let their little hands grasp the food and jump in bubbles of excitement. If he had a warmer heart, he may have found the sight sweet. But he does not, he has a mission to complete. He approaches the peasant girl with sly steps but she has already noticed him, how, he does not know. He steps behind her and opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “My prince,” She speaks with a burning smugness he doesn’t have to look at to be aware of. Against his better judgement, a sly smirk spreads across his pale lips. “You remembered.” He quips to which she hums in approval and folds her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately I did.” Daemon shifts in intrigue. He hesitates for the first sun of his existence. “I almost thought you wouldn’t bring it back.” She comments, amusement slipping in between her teeth. A snicker passes his mouth, a mouth rarely barred. “I had not imagined you would need use of such a thing left so easily misplaced.” Daemon’s hot words burrow through her ear, as determined as their wielder. She turns her head, baring her soft neck and piercing eyes to look up into his. The heir’s breath hitches. 

“I misplaced nothing, my prince.” The peasant purrs boldly. The intimacy of a whisper drips from her like an aphrodisiac. Daemon grins. “Is it my name or merely my title that you know of?” He chuckles, a confident hand reaching wind at her waist. Her own hand cups it. “Of course, my Prince Daemon Targaryen.” He swallows and a shuddered chill draws down his back. “Might you tell your prince your own for adequate compensation?” She leans a little closer, only a breath apart and fanning across his twitching lips. She interrupts his thoughts by slapping his hand enough to stun him. “I shall not.” With him vulnerable, she twists away from him with cautious grace. “I like to leave my men wanting.” She calls with a growing impish grin. He surprises himself by returning the gesture, straightening his back as he does so and raising his brows. “And I am one of your men then?” He retorts easily and watches her sashay apart from him. Before she is too far, he pats down to find the letter in his pocket but already knows it has been swiped. Instead of berating his own foolishness, he smirks at the smart, slippery girl and steps away, sure to see her more in the growing time. 

As the moons pass and his brother grows increasingly irate with him, Daemon Targaryen sneaks away into the night. He ignores the hailings of his Lady Bronze and replaces her calls with the sweet melodies his newfound companion intoxicates him with. The soothing lilt of her lullabies and the calm braids she strews across his hair. Daemon stands, now a man of 27 years, at her side. Y/n, she had told him. Her name was Y/n. She was of no surname and no wealth but she was beautiful and kind. She was fresh and witty and every inch the insinuating tart she had been the night they met. Her fingers stroke through his tangled mane with a snort before landing her hands, rough with work, on his shoulders. He leans back and flutters his eyes shut. With all the bread she has kneaded, this is not the first time he longs for her embrace. He hums in swift pleasure, reaching up to coil his fingers with hers. “How is sweet Rhaenyra?” Y/n asks, voice ripe with interest and honey as always…Only this time, there is something burrowed beneath, he can feel it. He can feel it better than he can sense Caraxes’ heartbeat. “She is well…Almost full grown already.” Daemon responds, his fingers lingering as they caress Y/n’s hand. Why does it feel so much frailer than it did before? “Are you hiding something from me? Are you aware that it is a crime to lie to your prince,” The joke falls flat as she leans forward and shakes her head, arms stretching across her lover’s chest. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t pry but they are both aware of the deep mulberry bags beneath her eyes. 

But Daemon has always been a man of actions and impulses and so, he lets instincts take over, leaning back his head to look at her. His hands both reach up to cup her face and descend it toward him with gentle prompt. “I brought something for you,” He breathes, twirling a strand of her hair around his fingertips. She tilts her head and tightens her lips. “Whatever for?” He lets a mischievous grin twist his mouth and stands, settling Y/n down in the chair instead. Daemon cups her cold hands in his warm ones and folds them in her lap. “Close your eyes.” She does so begrudgingly but she is long past arguing with him when he’s in his moods. She chuckles. “You told you there was nothing you required for your namesday and while I respect–” She interrupts him, groaning with amusement. “Because it is not a namesday, I will never know my namesday,” She chuckles but her tickling throat gives her away, choking the words out of her dry throat. Daemon hums lowly. “But it is the day that you were given shelter.” She rolls her eyes at the quip. “That place was hardly a shelter.” He leans down to kiss wetly along her jaw and up to her earlobe. “And yet it brought you to me, kept you safe and waiting.” She snorts and raises her brows, a pointed expression inching over her. “I was hardly waiting.” He chuckles this time and kisses up the column of her throat. As she begins to breathe out gentle moans, he takes her distracted presence to skillfully thread his hand over hers, sliding cold steel onto her finger. She gasps and flutters her eyes open to see his cocky smirk. “Well?” He asks and kisses the finger. He licks his lips and lets a shaky breath flow through him. 

Y/n regains composure and stares at the ‘something’ he had brought her. She brings it to just in front of her sights and swallows. “Is-Is it…?” “Yes,” He whispers and looks at the carefully crafted jewellery too. “I want you to have a part of me, always. And in return…” He pauses and turns the ring around her finger slowly to reveal a carved dragon, its wings spread for flight. “I want all of you.” He slowly kneels in front of her. “I want you to marry me.” It’s instantaneous that her mouth parts and her eyes widen. “Daemon…” “That woman is not my wife.” He states coldly before warming at the sight of her softening brows. “You are my wife in body, in soul and I want so in law too.” He takes in a breath. “Please, do not this deny of me. “I told you I would give you everything and I intend to. “Your brother will never approve of it.” A growl ripples through his mouth. “I do not care, he has tried to be my dictator since we were children and now I am a man grown, I should be allowed to choose my own wife. To let her choose me. He has not yet had an heir, let me take you to Dragonstone.” He leans closer until only a single breath can part them. “Let me make you my wife in the ways of my ancestors.” Silence cups them in a bubble, so easily popped. Too easily popped…and yet, she turns the ring, roaming the dotted rubies that form the dragon’s eyes and in slow movement, she stares into violet irises as she kisses the dragon’s head. “Yes.” She whispers. “I will be your wife.” 

He doesn’t take a moment more to grasp the sides of her face and kiss fervently at her soft pliant lips. She returns the force in tandem as the sun sets behind them. The golden rays darken in a way only the most beautiful of moments could demand. Daemon’s hand drops to scrunch at the material at her thigh, at the skirts of her dress. It is in moments that both his hands reach to pop and tear at the incriminating fabric, ripping away her bodice until he can paw at his prize like an animal starved. Her teeth sink into his lip and the wet resounding noises surface upon their lips. His breath grunts as hers quickens in high pitched desperation. Her own hands slash roughly at his doublet, shoving it away from him like a criminal. His hips grind against her in hard strokes, desperately trailing his kisses down her neck while she clutches and pulls at his long silver hair. A high moan tears from her mouth as he sucks his marks into her, the need for possession clawing at his veins. Her pearl throbs as she twists to plunge him onto the floor. She straddles his thighs and wraps her arms around his neck and pushes his face against her neck again. He growls and snaps off her smallclothes. “When we met,” He groans, eyes fluttering back. “I thought you were a whore.” A breathy cackle drips from her animalistic mouth. “I’m starting to rethink denouncing that. You are much, ah, much too talented to be a baker.” He moans and burrows his head into the pillows of her breasts, lips wrapping to suction once more, to claim. “And you,” She interrupts herself to moan, tossing her head back. “Are much too unkempt to be a prince.” He bucks his hips. “Tell me,” A shriek breaks as he tugs roughly at the pelvis of his own trousers, desperately trying to be rid of the material. “Tell me you’re mine, Rogue Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” A gasp drips from his tongue while he finally gets a grip of his fabrics. He tosses her to lie on the floor, her back pressed against the wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” He babbles like a hormonal desperate teenager. With thick hands grapple his own trousers and tears them off with haste. “All yours, only yours.” 

He throbs as he kisses down her body, planting wet marks as violet as his eyes and crimson as his blood. He props up her right leg to drape over his shoulder and sucks at her thigh. His tongue probes at the flesh. His palms squeeze at her thighs as he slowly dips down between them and worships her mound in deep licks, drinking in the slick. He wants to drain it into a flask and carry it in his satchel. He wants to carry her around to sip from at any moment. He could die happily between her legs. Daemon Targaryen does not need wine or whore because she is his sin and he will anger the Gods happily if he can keep this temptress at his side. He pulls back to fan his breath along her throbbing cunny. Such a sweet filthy little thing, he thinks to himself, blowing down on it and revelling in her small jolt. His tongue drops to play with the bundled pearl, rolling it over the muscle and sending vibration as reward for every little moan that she lets pass. Her hands reach down and tug at his hair. “You should not have tempted me, adere riñus,” (slippery girl) His dark eyes level to meet hers. “I told you I want all of you and I intend to take it.” With an animalistic grin, his mouth descends once more to lap at her. Her back arches, grinding into him impatiently. “Be careful,” The woman pants. “Or I may start suspecting you to be a whore yourself.” He growls as she smirks and pushes up her body, slamming a forearm by her head and stretching her leg. She winces for a moment but recovers as his fingers replace his tongue. “A private whore then.” He speaks, removing his hand from her bud to palm at his length. “For a have already told you,” He grunts, chasing her mewls as he plunges into her entrance. “I am yours.” And so he pushes deeper, pushing roughly and lets his sweat pound into her flesh until they absorb one another. 

Months have passed. He knows they have but he doesn’t feel it. All he can do is fight and slay and watch as men burn and bleed. So long it has been since he last saw his true wife, since he last kissed her lips. A comment in passing has devoured his entire mind. A half-hearted promise that he has clung to now is visible but only in part. He wants it now more than he has ever wanted anything. “Yes, well, you may marry her if the Stepstones are ever retaken.” A King will be true to his word and his brother has never proved untrustworthy but the phrase was meant in jest, he knows. However, Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince and man of twenty-eight years, will let himself be damned before he rejects the prospect. He will make his wifey his own if it is the very last thing he does. He has returned to his brother, a crown of bone within his grasp and presented it to him with but one request. He shall take his own wife and he shall take her at court for all to see. Before every lord, lady or royal proudly. For the first time, it isn’t frustration or malice in his brother’s gaze in response to his boldness. It is gentle and merciful. Because that is what it feels like to be gifted the honour of his adere riñus. It is mercy, it is a blessing, it is his salvation. It is the rise of his sun and the fall of his stars because he only needs one. He only needs one shining star to keep his moon afloat and begging. 

Finally he can return home to her with more than a title and unfair vows. He can return with a heart full. Daemon’s hand twists at the wooden door he has slipped past so many times before but he freezes at the sight. An array of mess greets him and horror balls in his throat to gag him. His eyes snap at every corner, panic rising like the flow of sharp wind. His feet travel through the cluttered space, wariness biting at him but then he sees blood splatter on a cloth. It is as crimson as the shirt beneath his tunic and that alone makes him scream for her. Her name resounds through the open space and his legs run swiftly to the only other room there, the one where he had professed his devotion to her until the words bled out. He bursts the door open with the force of ten thousand men, the hinges yelling at him. He settles his sights on his weak love. She is shivering. With widened eyes and swiftly snaps to her side in one breath and kneels there, clutching her hands. “What is wrong, my love, who has hurt you?” The words are loud, demanding and cold. She almost doesn't respond and his heart stops. “I am well, husband.” She calls him such…She calls him such without even knowing the good news, the news he had only dreamed of whispering into your ear but not like this. Never like this. “My love, you are not.” Daemon chastises and fumbles with her bedsheets. He reaches to cup her cheek. “My love what has happened, has someone thieved you, please tell me what has happened.” She merely shakes her head. “I,” She coughs into her hand, rich thick blood dripping from it like a cursed potion. His face hardens but he lets her finish, lets the quiet remain. She’s trembling like a little lamb. “You knew that I was in an…unseemly state when you left. I am glad to have you return to me.” She has never spoken so proper, so rehearsed to him before. How long had he been blind? “I am taking you to a healer.” He snaps instantly and stands. She winces. “No,” She begs weakly. He shakes his head. “No, please, I do not wish for you to see me in this state.” “Shame is not for this time!” He yells. “I return home to my wife sickly and bedridden and you expect me to not alert a maester? Nonsense, you are coming willfully or I will make you.” 

The nights are cold and they pass without progress as he lays by her side at all hours. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling. “It is in the sky that you are free,” She utters. “Caraxes will be missing you.” Daemon shakes his head and glides a hand up her waist. “And if I should fly him then I shall be missing you.” “He is an animal as wild as you, my love,” She berates with the softness of an angel. “And he will wait.” “And for how long? Until I am old in my grave.” “Do not say such things!” Daemon chastises. “It is mere truth, husband.” She sighs and curls his hair in her fingers. “He needs flight and so do you.” He doesn’t respond, his petulance growing.”I am not getting better.” She wags a finger in his face when he tries to argue. “I will continue not to but if you do this justice for me then I will grant you an army of love.” The mischief still holds on her tongue after all this time. The gentle mocking of his salvation and he smiles. He smiles as water pricks his eyes. He can’t speak. He won’t make it so, not if it is only going to claw at him. 

Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches as the ivory moon lowers before him. He watches as gold forgives the darkness and they embrace. The twine of beauty and misery thread together in a beautiful seal. A seal of love and beauty. He twists a ring in his hand, one made of Valyrian steel and shattered promises. He sits upon a red cloth. Parchment is strapped to his thigh, awaiting acknowledgement, a web of bluebells encapsulates it. A letter of hopes, a letter of dreams unfulfilled. Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches the sun rise and with it, his future. He has felt his slippery girl slip from him and now it is time for him to breathe new air. He is only left with the remnants of her but that is enough for him to resume his newfound duty. A duty to her, to her memory and to her desires. As he watches the night close, he finally takes acceptance. He accepts peace. Her love is not red, it is not blue. It is in what she has left behind and it is in what she has gifted onto him. Finally he understands what she meant that fated day. She does not own him. He belongs to her.

Her love is her remnants. And he has an army of it. 

Remnants Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @chompchompluke @eyelinerandcigarettes

HOTD Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @wrendermedone @hopelesswritergall @blackdreamspeaks @its-actually-minicika @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly @adelusionalwriter

[bruh-changbin]

pamplemousse

pairing: yang jeongin x afab reader

genre: smut + fluff (minors dni)

warnings: mentions of food (grapefruit lawl), oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), kissy, that's it

word count: 1.5k

a/n: SHORT I KNOW but i'm busy and lowkey wasn't feeling this while i was writing it but was also too stubborn to scrap it and also havent posted for skz in like eons so here also first jeongin fic yay enjoy and lmk thoughts

you’ve always been impartial to mornings.

they’re so boring. 

and desolate.

and……. ugh.

who would rather be up at the ass crack of dawn being productive instead of getting a couple of extra z’s in? your boyfriend would, much to your dismay.

being a vehement night owl has been an integral part of your persona since highschool, when papers and essays that in hindsight were not all that important kept you up late into the night. the ink splotched sky dotted with milky white stars a solace from the glaring blue light of your laptop that dried your eyes and gave you a headache.

in post-secondary you never strayed from your nocturnal ways, often times only crawling under your covers to get some rest when the sun had started making its way up the horizon. whenever asked your greatest weakness the first word that always comes to mind is procrastination.

still, there’s something so hauntingly beautiful about being awake and alone in the late hours of the night. you’re able to gaze upon the moon and the pale glow she casts upon your surroundings. you’re able to take in the sounds of the world when people are removed from the equation. you’re able to ponder, allow your thoughts to swim around in your brain without interruption. all of which is washed away when tinges of orange, yellow and pale blue begin to streak the sky in the morning. 

ergo, you were somewhat disappointed upon the discovery that your lover does not feel the same way; quite the opposite actually. 

to be completely fair jeongin’s schedule is to blame for his early rising, but it makes no difference to you. most mornings you wake to an empty bed, hands feeling around before your eyes are open to search for a warm, 5’10” body and instead being met with cold sheets. 

of course it’s not the worst thing in the world but still, it’d be nice to bathe in the warmth of the late morning sun while wrapped in jeongin’s buff arms - morning sex is also a plus, should the opportunity arise (which it almost never does due to you usually waking up alone). 

this morning you wake up to an empty bed, as per usual. the screen of your phone lights up when you tap it and tells you that it’s nearing 11:00; you spend a few minutes scrolling through your socials before forcing yourself to get up. 

you laze your way through your morning routine, making sure to wash your face and make your bed and throw on some clothing with more coverage before making your way downstairs. upon entering your kitchen you spot a plate that’s been placed on the middle of your counter with a spherical object of some sort on top of it - a grapefruit. half of a grapefruit, to be precise.

it looks refreshing, with the flesh a pretty pink, the veins white and spongy, the rind a pale yellow that’s waxy to the touch. crystalline specks of sugar are melted into the juice, the sweetness a contrast to the bitterness of the fruit.

you indulge yourself by digging in with a silver spoon, scooping out coral coloured chunks of fruit and placing them in your mouth, leaving a tart coating on your tongue and the back of your throat. syrup slips past the corners of your lips and you lick it away, not wishing for a drop of the fresh juice to go to waste.

despite there being no note or whatsoever you know this was jeongin’s doing; and you know that he had the other half before he left this morning so in a way the two of you still had breakfast together (not really). of the small things he does for you in your relationship this is easily your favourite - knowing that your brain is barely operating when you first get up and head downstairs so he makes it easy for you to nourish yourself before starting the rest of your day. 

looking after you is second nature for jeongin, who tends to act as if you’re a precious baby bird who fell out of its nest and needs help getting back on its feet. you don’t mind it of course, and he knows where the line between pampering and coddling lies and rarely crosses it (you’re not actually that reliant on him, and he knows that). being the youngest in stray kids means he’s constantly being taken care of, and he just likes to do the same for someone else - that someone else being you. 

he’ll massage your back when it hurts, run to the convenience store when you’re craving something specific, dry your tears when you cry over a sappy rom com that you forced him to watch with you.  

he lets you play with his hair and help him choose his outfits. he’ll wrap his arms around your waist and kiss his way down your neck when you’re doing the dishes. he’ll fuck you in the middle of the night when you wake him from his slumber, claiming that you’re too turned on to fall asleep and his body is the only thing that can satiate you. 

the devotion he has to you is constant, and you can feel it in the way he talks to you, takes care of you, touches you. through this you’ve learned his quirks and nuances, how to tell what he needs and when he needs it.

much like tonight, when, after coming home from a devitalizing day of practice, you can tell that all he wants is to feel your warmth and you his. the pads of his fingers are rough as they slip under the hem of your shirt and smooth against your sides and your back, his pouty lips coming in contact with your jaw before pressing against your own. with movements that have an undertone of urgency jeongin guides you towards your shared couch in your shared apartment, his arms bracing your frame as he all but pushes you up against the cushions. 

with his chest flush against yours you inhale his scent, dragging your fingers through his hair and whining when his teeth pinch your bottom lip. the grip he has on your restless hips is strong, and when he glides his tongue against yours and you swear you can taste the faintest hint of grapefruit juice in his mouth. 

the warmth you lose when jeongin pushes himself off of your body is only worsened when he pushes the fabric of your shirt up to expose your tummy, his curious fingers dipping into the waistband of both your pants and panties, both of which are stripped from you when jeongin drags the fabric down and off of your legs. 

you instinctively clamp your legs shut, yet you allow jeongin to pry them open with his firm grasp and position himself in between your limbs. his pupils swallow up the rest of his eyes as his gaze falls upon your bare cunt, tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he kisses and nips his way down the flesh of your inner thighs. 

your pussy is sticky and wet with sweet nectar that jeongin laps up and swallows down like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. his tongue pokes and prods at your flesh, your cunt clenching around nothing when he teases your clit by flicking it with the tip of his tongue. 

“baby~ don’t tease,” you huff in annoyance as jeongin refuses to focus on one place for more than a few seconds. his right hand moves from where it was perched on your hip to allow his index and middle fingers to toy with your now dripping hole, only slipping inside once you’ve whined and complained enough. 

he continues to suck on your clit as his fingers dip in and out of your pussy, causing your stomach to churn and your heart to flip in your chest as you writhe in pleasure. your breath hitches in your throat each and every time the silver rings at the base of jeongins fingers graze your hot wet cunt, his digits now surely coated in your arousal. 

his fingers keep thrusting and his tongue keeps teasing and soon enough you’re cumming all over him, moaning aloud into the open space of your living room as your orgasm slowly ebbs away.

the sight of jeongin making his way up your body after tongue and finger fucking you is one to behold, with his pout swollen and pink and coated in your juices and his hair a mess from the way you were tugging on it. his cheeks are flushed a subtle shade of rosy pink, much like the colour of the grapefruit you shared this morning. you pull his body against yours and kiss away the sweetness on his lips. 

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 12

Masterpost Read on AO3

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: Sometimes I think about how the first chapter of this AU was like 2k words and basically experimental. But. Now we're here. You asked for a 10k word chapter and so you shall receive a 10k word chapter because there is just so much. So much.

---

In one year, the earth circles the sun exactly one time at approximately 67,000 miles per hour. A tiny speck of paradise hurtling through wide open space at 30 kilometers per second, one astronomical unit away from the star that breathes life into our souls.

Within 365.25 days, Earth rotates on its axis 365.25 times, each rotation taking almost exactly 24 hours. 1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds.

Within 24 hours, anyone could be doing just about anything on our peculiar little green and blue planet. When I sleep, someone else is taking their morning jog, and if that jog takes 20 minutes, then that person still has 1,420 minutes to fill. Ideally, I would sleep the entire time that that person jogs, plus at least another five hours. But I’m not sleeping. How can I?

So instead, if I sleep for the entire time that that person jogs, plus another three hours, if I’m lucky, then that leaves 74,400 seconds in my day. Each of those seconds, at this moment, is dedicated to keeping you alive.

Except for these few, as I stand outside watching the sun set on a world that you are not standing on. I have been ordered to step outside, to take a break, take a breath.

So I do. I take a deep breath, and I hope that my own breath can somehow fill your lungs, too.

I take a breath, and I look at the endless expanse of Earth before me, bathed in an orange and gold hue that feels too peaceful, too beautiful, for the nightmare moment that is enveloping my entire being.

There are approximately 120 seconds from the time the sun hits the horizon to the moment it slips below. However, when any layman attempts to time this event, it will likely take longer. This is because a refraction of roughly 0.6 degrees, caused by light’s decreased velocity through a dense mass of air, creates an illusion to the observer that the sun is more than a full diameter higher in the sky than it actually is.

A peculiar thing to think about, now. Physics, however, serves as a reminder of the conditions in which we exist, the miracle that is the complexity of our lives. It is a reminder of the fact that even in pain and uncertainty, this world is beautiful, and this is why we do what we do. 

During this prolonged period of time, though, I look at the sunset, and I know that somewhere out there – up there – there’s you. In those extra moments caused by the refraction, I know you are alive. I pretend that I can feel your heartbeat in mine. I pretend that if my heart keeps beating, so will yours. Because I know that if the breath goes out of your lungs, if the life is extinguished from your soul, I just might cease to exist, too. 

–

November 20 Nassau Bay, TX

Gale doesn’t sleep. He barely even closes his eyes because every time he does, the only thing he can see is a funeral that may or may not come to pass, a tri-folded flag, a missing man formation, Bucky’s picture on a stand beside his casket. The mere idea that Gale might be able to sleep right now is absolutely laughable. His right hand still burns from where the glass sliced it open, and he curls it into a fist, focusing on that pain.

He lays wide awake in the darkness in a too empty bed. Alone, so alone. And he thinks about their wedding night. Two silver rings in the moonlight. Bucky’s body on top of his, moving in time to the beating of their hearts. The warmth of his skin, his hands holding Gale’s waist, breathy laughs against his neck.

It’s been so damn long since Gale last felt Bucky against him, held his hand, kissed him goodbye. Nearly a month. And now, in the darkness of the world and the darkness of his mind, Gale feels a rising panic because he can’t recall the exact feeling of Bucky’s hand cupping his cheek. How is it fair that a feeling he’s been familiar with for half of his life can disappear from his brain in the blink of an eye? How is Gale supposed to live the rest of his life without ever feeling the warmth and comfort of Bucky’s body against his, when he can’t even recall it properly after just one month?

He lays in his empty bed, staring up at a ceiling that he can’t see. He shuts his eyes tight even though it makes no difference, and he tries to remember their wedding night. Bucky sipping champagne out of the bottle, biting roughly at Gale’s lower lip, stripping them both down one item of clothing at a time until their expensive wedding tuxedos were strewn haphazardly on the floor. He thinks about Bucky pushing him onto the bed, hovering over him with a desperate sense of hunger and need and love. He thinks about Bucky’s voice calling him angel and doll and darling. He thinks about Bucky’s body on his, Bucky’s mouth kissing him all over, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s fingers in his hair. He thinks about the familiar and comforting scent of him, Gale’s favorite scent in the entire world.

After he said goodnight to Marge and closed himself away in his bedroom with the dogs, he sat on his bed, the sleeve of the Yankees sweatshirt pressed to his nose. No matter how much he breathed in, it just didn’t smell like his husband anymore. His biggest problem in the last 24 hours has been reminding himself to breathe, but all of a sudden, he was near hyperventilating with the panic and the need to have something that still carried Bucky’s scent. How is he supposed to go the rest of his life without ever smelling that again?

He tore through Bucky’s dresser, sifting through every shirt and sweatshirt he could find, but they were all clean. Nothing but the scent of their laundry detergent. Stupidly, Gale had done the last of Bucky’s laundry after he went into quarantine, just a normal, meaningless house chore that all of a sudden feels like it took everything away from him. Leaving him with nothing. 

If Bucky doesn’t make it home, someday Gale will forget the smokey-sweet scent of him. Someday he’ll forget the feeling of Bucky’s hands, the warmth of his body curled around him, the softness of his lips. He’ll forget the exact way Bucky smiled at him, and the way it made his heart soar every single time.

He’ll forget, because that’s just human nature. Someday, he’ll realize that he can’t recall those things from memory, that they’ve somehow slipped away, and he will grieve all over again. 

How can it even be possible to forget?

Alone in the darkness, thinking about their wedding night, he lifts his hand to his mouth. He presses the wedding band to his lips, and he holds his breath to keep from sobbing. 

By 1am, sleep seems to be a lost cause, something Gale knew before he even slipped into bed. They’re experiencing a cold snap in the Houston area, with night time temperatures dipping into the mid to low 40s, but he doesn’t care. He wanders through the house bundled in the damn sweatshirt with a thin throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders. In the kitchen, he looks at Maggie’s drawing stuck to the fridge with a magnet, and he presses his hand to it gently as he passes. Pepper and Meatball walk after him as he opens the back door leading onto the patio.

When Marge finds him about 20 minutes later, he’s curled up in a chair with his knees pulled to his chest. It’s a new moon, and he stares at the pitch-black sky, wondering if the fact that he can’t see the moon is better or worse than it looming over him. He has no visual of the world that his husband is stuck on. He has no visual of the world to which John’s life may be sacrificed, where his body and soul may be committed to the metaphorical deep. He keeps his ring finger pressed gently to his lips, and the dogs lay on the ground, guarding him, their thick coats shielding them from the cold. 

“You have to be freezing.” Marge sits down in the chair beside him, wearing one of his own sweatshirts that he’d lent her for the night. She looks worriedly at his bare feet pressed into the chair, turning pink from the biting ocean air.

Gale shrugs, because he doesn’t know. Didn’t notice. Doesn’t care. His feet are a bit cold, and he’s sure it should be registering more than it is. But it isn’t. “He’s up there somewhere,” he says instead.

She follows his gaze, looking into the darkness. She thinks about how he’s always been this way, since they were just kids. He feels so much and doesn’t show it to anyone but a select few. He holds so much in, and he feels weak for letting it go. She can see the way this is destroying him, and she can see the way he feels like it shouldn’t be. “Gale, you know, it’s okay if you-”

“I’m fine” Gale bites out. “I need to be fine.”

Marge sighs and takes his hand, the one that isn’t pressed to his lips. She’s spent a lifetime trying to make him understand that he doesn’t need to be fine. She’ll keep trying, no matter how many times he pushes her away. “Gale, your husband might be dying.”

He yanks his hand away and squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t say that.”

Marge doesn’t give in, because it’s what he needs to hear. She just takes his hand again, and he doesn’t pull away this time because they both know he needs something to hold onto. “You do not have to be fine,” she says gently. “Actually, you shouldn’t be. It’s normal to not be fine.”

He scoffs, because they both know where he came from. He can’t process all that right now, so he doesn’t. “It’s funny,” he says. “The people who were saying shit about him are either silent now or saying even worse.” 

Looks like our prayers were answered.

Fag deserves it.

Maybe we should send all the queers to the moon.

He hates social media. He always has, but he uses it now and then anyway, even when he knows he shouldn’t. There’s some little masochistic part of the human condition that doesn’t allow you to look away from things that smother you in anger. Earlier tonight, he had to chuck his phone across the room just to make himself stop scrolling through the hate.

He knows that the popular reaction to John Egan, Artemis 3 mission commander, has been overwhelmingly positive. Gale knows that the world is on the edge of their seats, holding their breath right along with him, as they wait for updates about Bucky’s condition. He’s seen the outpouring of love on the news and social media tonight, sending him thoughts and prayers even though thoughts and prayers seem so meaningless now. He supposes it’s nice that people are thinking of him, thinking of John, praying for his survival instead of his death.

Our hearts go out to Major Gale Cleven and the entire NASA community at this time.

But there’s something about a goddamn death wish that is just so loud.

“I know it’s hard,” Marge says, “but you really should stay off social media. You won’t touch it with a ten foot pole most of the time and now is when you wanna doom scroll?”

It’s a joke, and there’s some humor in it, but Gale doesn’t laugh. “Someone left something in my mailbox the other day. Praying the queer dies on the moon.”

Marge goes tense, frowning at him. He wilts a little under her stare, knowing she wishes he would’ve told her before. “Have there been any more? Has anyone contacted you directly?”

Gale looks down at his feet, which are slowly turning a brighter red. “No.”

“Look at me, Gale.” Marge taps his hand, demanding his attention. “You let me know immediately if anyone does, okay?”

Gale shrugs, but at her pointed look, he gives a small nod, and then he goes back to looking at the moonless sky. They sit for a couple of minutes before Marge squeezes his hand again. “Let’s get inside. I know you’re freezing, even if you don’t.” She gently tugs at his hand until he unfolds himself and stands up from the chair, and she’s relieved when he follows her back into the house, bare feet padding quietly on the cold ground.

When she tries to guide him down the hall to the master bedroom, though, he stops and shakes his head. “No.”

“You need to sleep.”

“No,” he insists. “Not in there.”

Marge watches him, and part of him feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man. He’s seen combat, flown fighter jets, passed survival training with flying colors, stayed on the international space station, and all manner of other unthinkable things. He shouldn’t be reluctant to sleep in his own bed. He shouldn’t feel afraid of the dark. His heart rate shouldn’t be skyrocketing at the mere thought of walking into that room. But his feet are planted to the ground, and he can’t make himself move. He twists the ring around his finger, and he holds his breath.

Marge grabs him gently by the arm again and tells him to look at her. “Take a breath,” she says. So he does. “Go to the living room, okay? I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket.”

When she returns, Gale has actually done as he was told and is sitting on the couch, both feet planted firmly on the ground. The dogs lay on the floor, Pepper watching him curiously and Meatball resting his head on his paws, on alert for anything that might hurt Gale. The dog doesn’t expect trouble to come in the form of Marge, but when she hands over the pillow, Gale squints at it skeptically before pressing it close to his face, and he chokes on something that resembles a sob but doesn’t quite make it that far. Meatball jumps up immediately to nuzzle at Gale’s arm, and Gale idly pats him on the head as he breathes in the scent of the pillowcase. 

It’s John’s. Smokey and sweet.

“I switched them,” Marge says.

So much panic, looking for something, anything, that still smelled like Bucky, and it was right beside Gale the whole time. Right on the other side of the bed, waiting.

He has an urge to clutch it tight to his chest like a child with a blanket, to sob into it until he’s out of tears and out of breath. But he smiles, and then he frowns, and then he scrunches his nose to keep from crying, and then he almost smiles again. Marge sets the blanket beside him on the couch, and she steps up close to him. She runs her fingers through his hair before leaning down to kiss him lightly on the top of the head. He wants her to tell him that everything will be okay, that John will be alright and he’ll come home and this will all just be another story to tell someday. He wants her to hug him tight and say that everything will work out. But at the same time, he doesn’t. He wouldn’t believe her if she did.

Two things can be true. Gale can know that the odds are against Bucky in every possible way. And he can also believe with his entire heart that Bucky Egan is capable of making it through anything.

All of it can be true and all of it can be false and none of it can take the pain away.

So instead, he thanks her, and she tells him to get some sleep. He lays down on the couch, alone in the darkness, and he buries his nose in the scent of his husband. It’s the only thing in the entire world that can make him fall asleep for the few hours he has left before he has to get ready for work again.

180 minutes. 

10,800 seconds that are devoted to keeping Gale alive instead of his husband. 

–

Rosie has been obsessively running the same calculations that he knows they’re running on the ground. By now, a task force has been assembled at JSC, consisting of engineers and medical professionals, dedicated entirely to anticipating every outcome and figuring out how to keep John alive through them all. They don’t communicate with the crew fast enough for Rosie’s comfort, though.

The human body follows rules, until it doesn’t. And microgravity, i.e. a lunar environment, is definitely not a place where rules can be expected to apply. No human has been on the lunar surface since 1972 – the data on how the human body responds to any given situation in this environment is extremely limited.

There are several major problems with having an incapacitated astronaut on the moon. On one hand, a lunar environment with fractional gravity in a climate- and pressure-controlled lander may work in the body’s favor relative to zero-gravity – compared to if this had occurred onboard Orion. However, at least onboard Orion, the return to Earth could be accomplished faster without having to risk launching an incapacitated astronaut that may or may not still be experiencing decompression symptoms at high speed from partial to zero gravity, followed by a several day return trip where any number of things could go wrong.

Keeping Bucky stable is top priority, and will not be easily accomplished if he doesn’t wake up before Starship’s departure from the surface. And the longer he stays under, the less likely it is that he’ll wake, and the more likely it is that he’ll experience further complications.

So if stability is the major concern, then another key issue is what they call the “backpack problem.” Too much stuff, not enough space.

Any given spacecraft has storage and mass limitations in order to meet launch and functionality requirements. Orion itself can only fit so much equipment, and for years several different teams have been tasked with determining what materials are and are not crucial to have on board. This includes medical equipment. Orion and Starship are only equipped with so much in the way of medical supplies, quantities of which were pre-determined by detailed analyses that attempted to account for almost any given situation and calculate the likelihood of those situations occurring.

In short, a bunch of scientists ran a bunch of simulations to figure out what catastrophes were relatively likely to occur on Artemis 3, and then they ran more calculations to figure out what supplies would be required to deal with those catastrophes.

Oxygen is one problem. Ideally, Starship and Orion should both have enough oxygen to operate for the mission duration as well as account for any emergencies. In order to mimic a hyperbaric chamber, the amount of oxygen circulating through Starship’s crew cabin had to increase significantly for a few hours. Bucky’s decompression rash worsened again after pressure was decreased, necessitating an additional course of recompression therapy. As long as symptoms begin to alleviate, which Rosie suspects they will, further recompression shouldn’t be needed, and their oxygen supply should be good to go.

What he’s more concerned about is fluids.

Bucky’s been on an IV basically since Curt got him back into the lander and jammed the catheter into his arm. The IV delivers water, electrolytes, and minimal caloric intake to his body while he remains unable to eat or drink, but the short-duration lunar exploration missions are only equipped with the anticipated minimum amount of IV fluid that would be needed in a given event considered relatively likely to occur.

Luckily, these calculations did consider an incapacitated crew member. Between Orion and Starship, the crew has 44 liters of IV fluid on hand, enough to provide intensive care for one average-sized male for 6 days. The problem, however, is that NASA researchers assumed transportation back to Earth would begin 24 hours after an incident, with the return taking a maximum of five days. Bucky’s already been receiving saline for over 24 hours, and a decision was made not to abort from the surface while he was unconscious and decompression effects were unclear. He and Curt won’t rendezvous with Orion for another 2.5 days. From there, the return trip will likely take 3 to 3.5 days, barring Houston giving them an alternative route. In total, if Bucky remains incapacitated for the duration, including the past 24 hours, he’ll need continuous IV treatment for seven days.

No less than one day more than was planned for. One day more than they have the supplies for.

They’ve passed the planned-for assumption of beginning transport back to Earth within a day of injury. No one knows if or when Bucky will wake up. No one knows if further complications will require additional fluids. A seizure or cardiac arrest, for example. Or, god forbid, any other incident or illness that leads another crew member to need fluids. 

Rosie is running the calculations, and he knows JSC is, too. They’re trying to figure out how to keep Bucky alive in the short term without potentially screwing him over in the end. 

And the clock is ticking.

–

Curt hasn’t slept any more than Gale has. Every time he closes his eyes all he can see is Bucky, unconscious on the ground, blood in his helmet and his leg crushed under the rover. He doesn’t think anyone at all is getting much sleep right now, though, and he knows Houston is working around the clock on concerns that Curt doesn’t even know about. This isn’t his first rodeo; he knows how it goes. They’ll have a task force assembled by now running through every possible scenario that Curt can’t even fathom up here on his own. But they won’t communicate with him about a single one until it comes to pass, because they want him to focus on keeping Bucky alive. So they’ll feed him instructions as needed, and he just has to follow them.

Follow them and don’t fuck it up. Don’t kill his best friend.

He’s been in life or death situations before. He’s single-handedly held together a copilot who was bleeding out all while safely landing a plane. He’s saved copilots – friends – and he’s lost them, too.

That’s just how being a pilot goes, sometimes. 

He’s watched a casket draped with the stars and stripes be marched to a grave. He’s listened to the bugler play and the riflemen send off a three volley salute. He’s tri-folded a flag and watched as it was presented to a loved one trying with all their might not to fall apart right there and then.

If he has any say at all, he will not, under any circumstances, allow Gale Cleven to be on the receiving end of that flag.

What sucks is that he doesn’t have any say. All he can do is do as he’s told, and on a minimally stocked space exploration vehicle, his capabilities are limited.

That’s what he’s thinking about as he sits by the lander window, eating bland as fuck chicken and rice out of a rehydratable bag. Space Oddity plays in the background and he mumbles along: “Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong, can you hear me Major Tom?”

The same song Bucky sang as they approached their landing site. Back when they never expected the end of the song to apply.

Bucky is still very much unconscious and dead to the world, lying motionless on the fold-out cot that was stored in the Starship med bay. Curt’s glad he had the wherewithal to remember that the cot existed, much less where it was stored, because trying to care for an unconscious patient with decompression sickness and a broken leg would be a bitch in one of the hammocks they typically string up to sleep in.

Despite the general horror and the sudden need to recall his astronaut medical training, Curt’s daily tasks have become monotonous. Check Bucky every hour, do whatever he needs to do for him, and talk to Rosie and Houston about his condition. When he’s not doing that, he does housekeeping tasks. He’s taken inventory of their food and medical supplies twice already. He’s vacuumed all of the filters and vents. He’s checked the integrity of their climate-control systems more times than he can count. He’s checked in on the video feed of their LEAF plants, which he is simultaneously excited and sad to see are growing as hoped, even though he hasn’t been able to give them proper nutrients in the last day. 

Mostly, he’s spent a lot of time just pacing the lander, listening to music, longingly staring out the window. He wonders if yesterday morning was his last lunar EVA. If it was, well, how can he complain? How many people get to step foot on the moon at all? And he got to do it a small handful of times. He’s spent more time on the moon than any man ever. He got to do what he’d always dreamed of doing, see what he always dreamed of seeing. It was better than he ever imagined, so how lucky is he?

But he also only got to do about half of their planned EVAs, and he feels fucking cheated. 

He wishes stepping outside was as simple as just walking right on through the door for a leisurely stroll, but stepping outside like that on the moon means instant death. Instead, an EVA requires 30+ minutes of pre-breathing and securing himself into a bulky and complex spacesuit, followed by egress from the lander through a pressure lock. The process to get out of Starship alone takes up time that Curt simply doesn’t have, not while he has to constantly monitor Bucky, check in no less than every hour, and be immediately available if Houston notices something off.

All Curt can do is look at the lunar surface out the window, longing to step onto that fine foreign soil one more time.

He’s angry, and he doesn’t know at who. He’s not angry at Bucky; how can he be? That would be absurd.

Or maybe he is? Maybe he is mad that Bucky’s random but perhaps avoidable accident ruined their moon mission. Maybe he is mad that Bucky got them both into this mess. But that’s selfish as hell, isn’t it?

He’s mad at himself for even thinking that. 

And he’s definitely still mad at himself for allowing the accident to happen, even though everyone tells him it’s not his fault.

Maybe he’s mad at whoever at NASA didn’t quadruple check the quality of the rover wheels.

Maybe he’s mad at whatever gods may be listening.

Maybe there really isn’t anyone to blame and it was just shitty, shitty luck, and now Curt has to while away up here, dedicating his days to making sure John Egan doesn’t die on the fucking moon. 

Fix You by Coldplay plays in the background. Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.

Curt chucks his empty chicken and rice bag at the wall.

It strikes just to the right of the console, and bits of rice tumble out onto the floor and stick to the console buttons. Curt feels like an idiot for a moment before he gets mad again. If nothing else, it gives him another thing to clean instead of just stewing in fear and anger that he’d rather not acknowledge. So, with a glance at Bucky to ensure he is, in fact, still laying completely still on the shitty little cot, he turns up the music and sets to work.

Eventually, the song changes to Afterlife by Avenged Sevenfold. I don’t belong here, we gotta move on, dear, escape from this afterlife.

It’s sad and it’s angry and it’s everything Curt feels. 

His little bubble of frustration is burst by Benny’s voice in his ear. “Smokey would like me to ask you if you’re okay.”

Curt: “Yeah Benny, I’m just great, thanks for asking. Any reason? Or is watchin’ over my comatose best friend the kicker?”

Benny: “We’re concerned, down here, about your music choices today.”

Curt: “My music choices?” Curt huffs, shaking his head as he stops his aggressive scrubbing of the console.

Benny: “So far, we’ve documented you listening to, among others…” Benny pauses, as if checking a list he’s been provided. Which is exactly what he’s doing, because apparently the Flight Surgeon is keeping a list of the songs on Curt’s sad boy hours playlist.

Benny: “Rocketman by Elton John, Champagne Supernova by Oasis, Unsteady by X Ambassadors, Bigger Than the Whole Sky by Taylor Swift, Take Me Instead by Zero 9:36, White Ferrari by Frank Ocean, Gone Away by the Offspring, Before I Go by Billie Eilish, and now Fix You and Afterlife. Not to mention, Wake Me Up When September Ends, during which you substituted November for September.”

Curt: “Clever right?”

Benny: “We’re impressed with your range.”

Curt: “I’m a man of the arts.”

That’s only a fraction of the songs that have been playing over the last few hours, basically all of them, for lack of a better word, angsty as hell. 

Benny: “You doin’ okay, Curt?”

Curt: “I’d like the record to show that I also had a dance party to early 2000s pop earlier this morning.” 

Benny: “Yes, the flight controllers particularly enjoyed singing along to Girlfriend. But, Curt-”

Curt: “We’re a little somber up here, Benny. Not gonna lie.”

And then he shuts off his coms, because that’s enough of that, and he sings along to Move Along by the All American Rejects as he heads over to check on Bucky. Again. Even when your hope is gone, move along, move along just to make it through.

“Hey bud, how ya hangin’ in there?” he asks as he stands over Bucky’s cot. Despite his bad mood, he’s been trying to talk to Bucky throughout the morning. Rosie told him that that’s a good thing to do with coma patients. ‘Cause that’s what Bucky is now: a coma patient.

“Everyone’s real worried about you. He won’t talk to anyone but Marge, but Gale’s in pieces. He does a good job of hidin’ it at work, but Benny told me he isn’t doin’ too hot. That’s probably not somethin’ you wanna hear, but I thought someone should tell you. Maybe, if nothin’ else, that’ll convince you to wake up. He needs you, ya know? I’m worried about him…if ya don’t make it. Defies the laws of nature, huh? Buck without Bucky.” Curt sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “So just, y’know, wake up when you can, okay? I don’t wanna fly all the way back to Earth with your fuckin’ dead body.”

They only have a couple of days until they depart from the moon, and Curt is not at all thrilled by the prospect of having to shove Bucky’s unconscious body back into his OCS suit and strap him into the commander’s seat. Especially with a broken leg.

“You owe me big time, just so ya know, for cleanin’ you up and all. You’re my best friend, but this is a lot closer than I ever fuckin’ needed to be to ya.” Curt chuckles as he raises Bucky’s shirt to inspect his abdomen. The movies never show you all the maintenance that goes into a coma patient, the hygiene tasks and all. Curt wishes he could’ve just gone on not knowing about any of that, but he’s had to do some things he’d really rather never discuss again since Bucky conked out on him.

He took care of most of that earlier, though. Now he just checks him all over for signs of the decompression rash, and he’s satisfied to see that while Bucky’s skin is still mottled all red and purple, it’s fading and no longer swollen. Then he unwinds the bandage from around Bucky’s head and reports to Rosie and Benny that the gash on the back of his head looks alright. They tell him to clean it real good again and replace the bandage.

He had to shave off some of Bucky’s hair yesterday to assess the wound. He knows he’ll be pissed about that when he wakes up.

All sorts of bio-med sensors are stuck all over Bucky’s body, so Houston can monitor his vitals. It seems to be about the only thing they talk about. Bucky’s oxygen levels, his heart rate, his blood pressure, his temperature. His leg, his rash, his head wound. The first lunar exploration mission in over 50 years has become a critical test in off-world life support and medical communication.

Bucky’s been breathing well on his own, and Curt thanks the fucking stars for that even as he triple checks every hour or so. He looks for the steady, though weak, rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, and is relieved every time to see that it’s there. He honestly doesn’t know if they have a breathing tube on Starship, and if they do, he does not want to figure out how to shove it into Bucky’s body.

Benny informs him that Smokey would like to increase Bucky’s pain medicine, so Curt adjusts the IV accordingly.

Every once in a while Bucky’s hand will twitch or something. Curt’s been told that that’s normal, and nothing to get excited about unless the movement is in response to some sort of stimulus. Which, so far, it hasn’t been. Even when Curt accidentally jostles the IV catheter inserted into Bucky’s arm.

He intentionally tests Bucky’s motor response just to make sure. First with a trapezius pinch, then a sternal rub, and finally by applying pressure to one of his nail beds, as Rosie instructed him to do yesterday. All of these tests are meant to apply mild pain to the patient to see if it generates a response. But none of them do.

How To Save A Life by the Fray plays in the background. I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness, and I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life.

“Still no motor response, Rosie,” he says.

“Copy, Curt.” Rosie sounds just as tired as Curt feels, and his voice carries a defeated tone that he doesn’t like.

“What are the odds of getting him through this?”

Rosie is quiet for at least a full minute before he responds. “I don’t know.” No one likes to hear the doctor say they don’t know. “He seems pretty stable now, but the longer he’s unconscious, the less likely it is he’ll wake up. I’m worried about the IV fluid. Houston’s working on scenarios for… well.”

“See how little they can give him and still keep him alive,” Curt mutters. Because no one knows how long he’ll need it.

“Mhm.” 

If Benny is listening in, he doesn’t say a word.

Curt rubs his thumb mindlessly over Bucky’s brow, hating how broken and defenseless his friend looks. Here’s a man who has always taken the world by storm, who has always thrown caution to the wind and lived life to the fullest every damn day. One of the bravest, though perhaps most reckless, people Curt knows. A man who loves so much and is loved by so many.

He knows that if Bucky has to die, he’d like it to have happened on the moon. That’s the kind of heroic end to the saga of his life that he’d be proud of. Nothing menial, like growing old or having a heart attack. Something spectacular, out with a bang like an exploding star.

But at the same time, that characterization belongs, in part, to the young man Curt knew out of college. Bucky’s very much the same person he was then, but he’s changed, too. Now he’s married. Curt looks at the ring on Bucky’s finger, which he found in his personal preference kit this morning. He knew Bucky would want to have it, but Rosie and Smokey cautioned against putting anything around his neck, so he took it off the chain and slipped it over Bucky’s ring finger, where it belongs. 

John Egan is a married man, and he loves Gale with so much devotion that Curt isn’t sure he’d be okay with dying up here after all. Maybe he wants to grow old. Maybe he wants to have as much time with his husband as humanly possible. Maybe he wants a damn finally; he’s mentioned it maybe once to Curt, just as a vague possibility after seeing how good Gale is with the neighborhood kids. What kind of cruel universe must this be to rip Buck and Bucky apart now, just weeks after their wedding? Before they even have the photos back? Before they get a chance to really find out what the rest of their life together can be?

“I’m worried about Buck,” he confides to Rosie after a while.

“We all are,” Rosie agrees.

“He tries so hard to act like he’s fine. Benny told me he punched a mirror.”

“Sounds like Buck, honestly.”

Curt sighs and leaves Bucky be, wandering back over to the command console. “I’m kinda worried that if John doesn’t make it, Gale won’t either.”

Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift plays in the background. Just close your eyes, the sun is going down, you’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now.

“We’ll hold him up, get him through it,” Rosie assures him. Because there’s no other choice.

–

Bright lights. Ears ringing. Pain. 

Pain. 

Awful pain. In his head. In his leg. His leg is on fire. He feels sick.

He can’t move. Can’t fucking move. 

Someone is saying Gale’s name. 

Gale. 

Buck. 

Angel. 

Make the pain go away. Please. 

–

Benny: “Curt, do you copy?”

Curt: “I’m here, Benny.” Curt is picking mindlessly, dejectedly, at a little grain of rice still stuck in one of the console buttons.

Benny: “John’s heart rate has increased significantly.”

Curt frowns and leaves the console be. Bucky was fine just minutes ago. Well, not fine, but stable. Ish. Uneventful, at least. 

But when Curt approaches the cot, his breath catches. He feels his own heart rate shoot up as he stares at Bucky.

Bucky is staring right back at him.

–

Gale mindlessly thanks the custodian who’d been called into Mission Control, just moments after he arrived for Red Shift, for cleaning up the coffee at his feet. Gale was given absolutely no warning, but he could tell by the way everyone stared at him when he filed in with Marge and Croz that something had happened. He felt his heart pounding in his chest as he made a beeline for Benny.

When Benny told him that Bucky had opened his eyes, the cup in Gale’s hand simply was no longer in his hand. It tumbled to the floor, spilling hot black coffee all over the place, including over his nice leather oxfords which are definitely now ruined. 

Bucky had opened his eyes just about an hour ago. The way Curt tells the story, he opened them when he was talking to Rosie about Gale. “It’s your name, Buck,” Curt tries to tell him. “He responded to your name.”

Gale doesn’t really believe it, chalking it up to a coincidence, even as he feels his heart swell with love and longing just a little bit.

Bucky was able to track some, but not all, movement. He wouldn’t blink on command, and he didn’t reliably respond to physical stimuli. He also didn’t keep his eyes open for more than 15 minutes, and he seemed to be in some state of panic at first. But it was something. It was enough to fill Mission Control with some semblance of a flickering hope, clawing its way to the surface. There’s a hesitant chatter in the room today, unlike the eerie silence of yesterday. 

So things continue as normal. Well, as their new normal. Macon sits beside Gale, ready to jump in if needed. Gale talks to the crew about their tasks. He tries to make Curt feel like his time on the moon hasn’t gone to waste by discussing LEAF and his findings on the LDA sites. 

“Think I’ll be able to get back out to the greenhouse?” Curt asks him at some point.

Gale looks at Clark, who shrugs, because no one knows. “I don’t know, Curt,” he says honestly. “I sure hope so.”

Because he knows it would mean a lot to Curt to be able to finish at least one experiment up there. 

And he knows that if Curt is allowed back on the surface, it’s because Bucky is stable enough to be left alone. It would mean Bucky was awake, moving, talking. So Gale wants Curt to be able to conduct that last EVA more than anything. 

By about 1:30pm, things are going smoothly. The tension is coming down, albeit cautiously. Gale is breathing easily, even if he keeps pressing his ring finger to his lips when he feels a sudden rise of panic. Even if he keeps flexing his bad hand just to feel something.

He glances to his right out of the corner of his eye when he becomes aware of a suspicious amount of activity. Flight controllers are whispering in each other’s ears, passing a message down the front line of consoles like a game of telephone. When Croz leans over towards him, Gale hits him with a glare. “Don’t even think about whispering in my ear.”

Croz nods and sits back, talking at almost normal volume. “Marge wants to know when you last ate anything.”

Gale rolls his eyes and looks over the other flight controllers, who are watching curiously, to glare at Marge at the end of the line. She shrugs and looks at him expectantly. She full well knows when he last ate. “Had a granola bar this morning,” he tells Croz. 

Croz looks just as unimpressed as Marge. “Dude. That doesn’t count. Did you eat dinner last night?”

Gale shrugs. No. Marge tried to make him. She ordered pizza. She raided his kitchen to make a salad with lettuce that looked like it might start wilting at any moment. She shoved crackers and peanuts and gatorade at him, just trying to get him to put something in his body.

He doesn’t deserve her.

He didn’t have any appetite. He ate half a slice of pizza and nearly threw up purely from the nerves consuming his body from the inside out. He managed some gatorade, a few crackers, and then he adamantly refused anything else other than this morning’s coffee and a granola bar that had almost no caloric value.

“Buck,” Croz says, in a voice that carries too much concern and judgment for Gale’s liking. “The last meal you had was that sandwich? It’s been almost 24 hours.”

Gale doesn’t think now is a good time to tell Croz that he also hasn’t really slept in even longer.

Macon shoves his shoulder from the other side. “Man, you need to eat something.”

“I’m fine,” Gale insists, leaning back in his chair and making a point of studying his computer screen, even though there is absolutely nothing of interest on it.

Croz and Macon both look at him like he’s insane combined with some expression of pity that Gale wants to slap off both of their faces, and they each give him some variation of “no you’re not.”

“I can’t leave right now,” he sighs. He motions to his computer, where he has Bucky’s vitals displayed along with telemetry from Orion and Starship. He’s mid shift. And he doesn’t want to bother any of the assistants to go get him something from the cafeteria when he doesn’t think it’ll stay down anyways. He sips his coffee. Only his second cup of the day, including the one he’d spilled when he was only half finished with it, which is surprising considering he’s over halfway through his shift.

Macon shakes his head and pulls out his wallet. He hands Gale five dollars. “Go get something from the vending machine. I can cover for a few minutes.”

Gale stares at him, and Macon stares back, challenging him to disagree. Gale looks at Croz, then down the row at Marge, who is watching him carefully. The other flight controllers pretend not to watch. “You’re no good to John if you pass out on us,” Croz tells him, using the same logic Gale used on Curt the day before.

Reluctantly, Gale grabs the five dollar bill, removes his headset, and leaves Macon at his post, listening as he informs the crew of the temporary CAPCOM change.

Trying to convince himself that it’s fine, that Macon has it under control, that there’s nothing Gale can handle that his substitute can’t, he decides to stop in the bathroom real quick, too. Then he wanders down the hall to the vending machine, looks at its contents with extreme distaste, and puts in a random number. With a bag of trail mix in hand, he heads back to Mission Control. Just as he walks through the door, though, he sees Marge running up the center aisle towards him, her heels pounding on the carpeted floor. Everyone is turned to watch them. 

Her eyes are wide, her face pale, and Gale grips the trail mix far too tight to keep from dropping it. 

He’s only been gone for three minutes.

Three fucking minutes.

–

“Fuck, fuck! Macon? Rosie?” Curt’s hands hover in the air over Bucky’s convulsing body, unsure of what to do.

“What’s happening, Curt?” Macon asks. Dr. Huston had informed him just seconds ago about another sudden increase in Bucky’s heart rate.

Curt: “A seizure, I think.”

Rosie: “Shit.”

Curt: “What the fuck do I do?”

Rosie: “Can you get him on his side?”

Curt tries to get his brain to catch up, analyzing Bucky’s condition. His broken leg is jerking uncontrollably, and he has that IV in his arm. But fuck it.

Curt: “Yeah, yeah I think so.” 

Carefully, Curt lifts Bucky from the side and tries to rotate him even as his body fights back. The IV pulls awkwardly at his arm, and Curt hauls him back closer to the IV bag to loosen the slack. He’s worried about that leg staying stable.

Curt: “He’s on his side.”

Rosie: “Hold him steady, okay? We don’t need him falling off the cot, and make sure his head stays in place so he doesn’t choke.”

Macon: “Let me know as soon as it stops. We’re timing it here.”

Curt nods, even though absolutely no one can see him. He holds Bucky down with all of his strength, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut through this ugly, terrible turn of events. 

He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He can hear Bucky’s limbs jerking against the cot. He can hear Rosie trying to reassure him. He can hear another Taylor Swift song playing somewhere in the background. Soon you’ll get better, you’ll get better soon, cause you have to. He clenches his jaw and tries to breathe, and he hopes Bucky will keep breathing, too.

Please. You have to. 

It’s the longest 53 seconds of his entire life.

–

A seizure.

Marge rushes forward to take Gale’s weight as he nearly collapses. They’re both worried for a moment that the lack of sleep and the lack of food and the fear and the nerves have caught up to him, that he’s going to pass out right here in the doorway of Mission Control. His head spins, his vision goes black around the edges. But his arms tighten around Marge, and he clings to her for dear life.

“Breathe, Gale,” she says. “Breathe.”

Gale draws in a barely controlled breath, and Marge rubs his back. Breathe, angel.

–

Harding sends him home this time, insisting that he needs to rest. Gale is too exhausted at this point to argue, even though he wants to punch someone or scream into a void. He knows Harding won’t back down, and he doesn’t want to cause a scene, so he listens for once. He lets Macon take over. He doesn’t fight. 

Marge insists on driving him home even though her work day isn’t over yet. Once again, no one trusts him to be alone. He resents that. He’s flown a damn fighter jet in worse condition. He can drive himself home.

What he doesn’t consider is that maybe it’s not just that no one trusts him to be alone, but also that they don’t want him to have to be alone. They want to be there for him. They want to get through this together. 

Either way, he doesn’t fight Marge too much either, not when she levels that look at him, eyebrows raised in a dare while her eyes are wide with concern, a frown etched into her face. He’s rarely been able to stop her from doing what she believes she needs to do, and he won’t be able to now. He thinks he’d rather have her there anyways, because part of him is afraid to be alone.

So in the hallway outside of Mission Control, she tells him to go to the car and wait while she gathers some things from her office. He nods wordlessly and watches her walk away. 

Outside, it’s raining again. A cold November rain that’ll drench you to the bone and leave you shaking uncontrollably if you give it a chance. It’s the kind of downpour that reminds you how alive this world is, reminds you of the fact that the Earth keeps turning no matter what. Gale used to find that thought comforting – no matter what happened in his life or in anyone else’s, at least the planet would go on, a constant, one of few things that could be relied upon. 

But now it makes him irrationally angry, because how is it fair? It doesn’t seem fair that the world is still turning when Gale’s entire universe has slammed on the brakes, skidding to a standstill. It’s not fair that the Earth goes on when his husband isn’t on it. It’s not fair that Gale himself will be expected to just keep on living if John doesn’t return. It’s not fair that the sun rises and sets and the birds sing and the rain comes down in torrents when Gale feels like he wants to rip his heart right out of his chest because it may never beat right again. 

It’s not fair that the universe he loves so much, that the little moon that he’s always loved so much, has done this to him. It’s not fair that his life’s work has done this to him. It’s not fair that his husband has done this to him-

And oh god what a horrible thought. How terrible is he to think that? 

He’s angry. He’s so fucking angry. 

He’s angry at the world and he’s angry at the moon and he’s angry at NASA and Harding and Mission Control and everyone who keeps acting like he isn’t a grown ass man who can very well take care of himself, because he always has since he was a little boy with parents who couldn’t be bothered.

And he’s fucking pissed at his husband. 

He’s so goddamn mad at John Egan for leaving him here on this planet that just keeps on fucking turning. He’s mad at Bucky for abandoning him just weeks after their wedding, for putting him through the absolute worst pain of his life. He’s mad at Bucky for making him imagine a world without him. He’s mad at Bucky for not staying safe in the first place, even though Gale knows with his entire being that it’s not his fucking fault.

But he’s so, so alone here, and he doesn’t know how to keep going. He doesn’t know how to keep breathing. He can’t be Buck if he doesn’t have Bucky. He can’t be anyone. He can’t be at all.

And it hurts. It hurts and he’s fucking scared and he needs to be okay but he’s the furthest thing from it.

He wants to scream and he wants to throw something and he wants to get drunk and he wants the pain to go away.

He wants it to stop. He wants to wake up from this goddamn nightmare in his husband’s arms, John’s voice whispering to him that it was all just a bad dream as he strokes Gale’s hair.

He wants John back.

But he’s not here. 

He’s not fucking here. He’s somewhere out there and even if his body is returned to this planet, John himself may never come home. 

So Gale stands alone in the freezing, pouring rain, drenched to the bone in water and anguish, and all of a sudden, he can’t feel a damn thing. 

It feels like relief at the same time that it feels like Hell. He doesn’t want to feel any of it anymore, but how much of a fucking coward does that make him? 

“Gale? Is that you?”

“Gale?”

“Buck?”

Someone grabs him by the shoulder, and he turns his head. It’s Sandra, fresh from some sort of mission training.

She looks at him, and she frowns. But it’s not quite with pity like everyone else. It’s more like disapproval, but in a compassionate way. She’s holding an umbrella in her other hand. She’s dry for the most part, and Gale looks down at himself. He’s drenched to the bone and shaking uncontrollably.

Sandra shifts the umbrella over so it’s covering him, even though it leaves her half exposed, her blue flight suit quickly getting soaked on one side. “Come on, love. You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“Supposed to meet Marge at her car,” he mumbles. 

Sandra shakes her head. “Well you can’t very well get in someone’s car like that. Let’s see if we can dry you off.”

Gale doesn’t protest this, either. Just lets her lead him back inside. He wonders how long he was standing out there, but decides it couldn’t have been too long at all since they run into Marge as soon as they’re through the door. She’s half running down the hall, no doubt not wanting to make him wait too long. But she stops short when she sees them.

She looks devastated, and it makes Gale feel guilty. He watches as she sighs, defeated. “Come on, hon,” she says. She takes Gale’s other hand, and both women lead him back down the hall.

–

By the time they get to Gale’s house, him and Marge in one car and Sandra in another, Gale isn’t shaking anymore. The girls found enough towels somewhere to at least start drying him off, leaving him looking more like a wet dog than a drenched cat. He found one of his spare flight suits in his office, which he hasn’t been in in weeks. So when he steps out of the car – even with damp, scraggly hair – he looks more like Buck Cleven, astronaut, than Gale Cleven, flight controller and grieving husband. 

Maybe that’s a good thing, since his front lawn is swarming with reporters and camera crews.

“Shit,” Marge mumbles as she pulls into the driveway and turns off the ignition.

Gale rubs a hand over his face, but he figures he should have expected this. It was only a matter of time before the media sought him out for a comment on his comatose husband’s condition and how he himself is coping. Or perhaps they want a comment about the integrity of the space program. Or about whether or not he still plans to follow through with Artemis 4 after what’s happened.

The rain is clearing up, but it’s still drizzling. He pulls a pair of aviators out of his bag anyways and puts them on in an attempt to hide the puffiness of his eyes. If it’s Major Buck Cleven they want, that’s what they’ll get. He isn’t going to give all the homophobic assholes of the world the satisfaction of seeing a photograph of him in shambles. 

When he steps out of the car, Marge and Sandra step up to flank him on either side, and they push their way through the crowd.

“Is Major Egan awake yet?” someone asks.

“NASA will release an update on his condition tonight,” Marge assures them.

“Major Cleven, how are you holding up?”

“No comment,” he says.

“Is NASA considering suspending the moon program?”

Marge looks to her left, seeking out whoever asked. “No.”

“Are you still planning to fly on Artemis 4?”

“Yes,” Gale says.

“How did this happen?” “Is Major Egan stable?” “Is anyone at fault here?” “How can NASA justify continuing these dangerous missions?” “Is this why you decided to get married before the mission?” “What do you have to say to everyone saying he deserved it?”

The fag deserved it.

Gale whips around, trying to differentiate between all of the men and women shouting at him. He doesn’t realize that he’s practically seething until Sandra grabs him roughly by the arm and pulls him forward. 

“If you want a comment, contact my office,” Marge yells over them. “Now I need y’all to leave before I call the police. This is private property! Hear me! Go on!”

Sandra shoves Gale through the front door.

–

By 4pm, Gale has more or less managed to calm himself down again. Between the two terrifying women traipsing around his home, he’s been convinced to eat some of the leftover pizza in the refrigerator, and he manages not to throw it back up. Marge practically shoves painkillers down his throat when she notices the way he keeps grimacing at the pain of his bad hand but incessantly flexing it anyways.

“You need a fucking tranquilizer is what you need,” she tells him. He glares at her, and she raises her hands in surrender. 

Benny comes by with the dogs, no doubt having been updated on Bucky’s condition as well as Gale’s. With the rain letting up, he’s quickly followed by Jane and Maggie, who probably saw the dogs through the window and came bounding out to play with them. Minutes later, Mrs. Mason shows up with a giant tupperware container full of food.

She shoves it at Marge when she answers the door. “I’m sure that boy isn’t eating right,” the old woman says, and she’d be correct. “So I made a pot pie casserole. None of that lasagna bullshit.” 

Marge laughs and thanks her before inviting her inside, too.

Soon, the entire quiet street is lined with cars as Red Shift, having passed the torch to White Shift, starts showing up at the house. Every single one of them. Croz, Bubbles, Dr. Huston, Clark… everyone. Every single person who witnessed Gale fall apart today. Every single person who saw him nearly at his fucking worst showed up to keep him company. To share their worry and their fear. To find comfort in their little community. To try to hold each other close and make each other smile when the world seems to be crumbling around them.

Gale finds himself in a house crowded with more people than he thinks he’s ever had over in his entire time in Houston. He finds himself surrounded by friends. Friends who hug him and pat him on the shoulder and offer words of sympathy. And friends who tell shitty jokes and break into his pantry and try with all their might to make him laugh and act like things are normal.

He watches Maggie and Benny play with the dogs, and he watches Mrs. Mason essentially proposition Albert Clark. He watches Croz’s one year old son crawl around on the floor with Bubbles and Sandra. He watches Jane teach Marge how to french braid her own hair.

It’s… nice. 

Dr. Huston walks over to him where he’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. “Chick wanted me to let you know how sorry he is,” he says.

“Mmm.” Gale nods, taking a controlled breath. The thing is, he knows Harding did what he had to do. He knows he can’t blame him. But it still hurt.

“He wanted to come tonight, but he thought you could use the space. He’ll be hosting a press conference to update on John’s condition.” Gale nods, and Dr. Huston pats him on the shoulder. “You’re doing alright, Gale,” he says.

Gale thinks that that’s kind of an odd thing to say. Not “John will be alright” or “everything will be alright,” but “you’re doing alright.” Maybe it isn’t that odd. Maybe it’s just an acknowledgement that there’s no right way to respond to a situation like this. An acknowledgement that Gale’s emotions and the way he chooses to express them are valid. It strikes a chord in him that he didn’t know was there. But Huston just nods and walks off to join in a conversation with some of the other flight controllers, leaving Gale alone again.

His heart and mind go back and forth in a violent tug of war between feeling lonely in a crowded room, and feeling less lonely and more loved than ever. His home is full of life. Filled with people of all ages who came together because he needed them. Because they needed each other. Because none of them wanted to be alone. Because none of them have to be alone.

Gale turns away, though, and he walks outside onto the back patio. The sun is setting, and he watches the oranges and pinks of a post-storm Houston sky flood the heavens above. He watches the sun dipping below the horizon, and he thinks about the refraction. The Earth keeps turning, even when his husband isn’t on it, even when Gale feels like his world has stopped. He takes a deep breath, and he hopes that if he keeps breathing, John will keep breathing, too.

He has to. 

---

---

Part 13

Side note: big big shout out and round of applause for my long time beta reader @mercy67 who has followed me across fandoms, encouraged my return to writing, and learned these characters for the sole purpose of reviewing said writing. Most of this was written yesterday so they really came through when, in the 11th hour, I asked if they'd read this over so I could get it out to you guys.

[bymuse]

𔘓 🌊 . ִ ֗ the mirage of you

≡ ⌂ ⌕ ❙❘❙❙❘❙❚❙❘❙❙❚❙❘❙❘❙❚❙❘❙❙❚❙❘❙❙❘❙❚❙❘ ♡゙ written by muse

❝you're as beautiful as the day i lost you❞

ˑ 𐇛̲﹗27! neteyam sully x 27! mate, widower neteyam sully x assumed dead mate, angst, comfort, brief mention of bonding, brief mention of explosions, mentions of death, grief, war hero neteyam sully, inspired by httyd 2 stoick and val's reunion

➷ NAVIGATION/MASTERLIST. PT2.

When he was all but seventeen, Neteyam lost the love of his life.

The sky people dropped an explosion, forfeiting your life without a speck of ash to remember you by. Immeasurable lives were lost amidst the inferno of flames devouring the forest. Knowing that you've descended the mountains on that particular day to pick out his favourite fruit, the fangs of guilt sunk into his neck.

He planned to commemorate your first day as one of the people and his mate, never expecting he would have to remember it as your final day as well.

After all these years, Neteyam still mourned for you. It wasn't spoken or conveyed through actions, but everyone could tell through the fog of dejection around him and the smile that never reached his eyes.

He had been engrossed in protecting the rest of his family, watching the years flash by, without ever catching a break.

Until tonight.

“Fnu, both of you.” Neteyam snapped at his sisters, tone harsh with concern when he asked them to be quiet. “How could you venture out during the eclipse? Do you have a death wish?”

For the many moons that came without you, Neteyam slept out of necessity. Four hours would be his usual. Even as his muscles were sore and his bones ached, he couldn't find comfort in resting. When he had retired to the night early, he didn't expect to wake up two hours later to find both his sisters missing.

Imagine his fear when he located them near the ruins of the sky people's old base, vulnerable and bare, fiddling with the remnants of their mechanics. The only person keeping his sanity intact was Loak, who to everyone's surprise, wasn't involved in this at all.

“Neteyam, you wouldn't believe who I saw一”

He raised his hand, signalling for Tuk to stop talking.

In front of them, Loak froze.

Sighing, Kiri placed her hand on Neteyam's biceps.

“Neteyam, I need you to calm down and maybe lower your weapon. This information would be best processed with nothing lethal in your hands.”

He frowned, both at Kiri's words and Loak's flabbergasted expression. His younger brother dropped his firearm. Neteyam's blood ran cold. Loak never drops his firearm. He passed by his siblings, patting Neteyam's shoulder with a slackened jaw.

It was as if Loak saw a ghost.

“You might want to take this one.”

Neteyam had no complaints. Swiftly, he positioned a poisoned arrow against the string of his bow. He led his siblings, treading stealthily. For his prideful brother to back down, perhaps it was a vicious beast.

Dread knotted in his stomach. With every step nearing the exit, his tail twitched in vigilance. Mentally, he prepared himself for the worst. But what was the definition of worst? it could be a thanator, a pack of viperwolves, or even the sky people.

“Kalweyaveng.” son of a bitch, he muttered under his breath. Did it matter what he would have to face? During the war, Neteyam had slain creatures, dreamwalkers, robots and humans. He was ready to kill anything.

Neteyam emerged from the thick metal door, stretching his bow as he laid eyes on his prey. One glimpse would be enough for the young war veteran to mark his enemy for death.

“Oh.”

Oh.

At once, he understood why Loak had reacted that way.

Beneath the swirling branches and silver starlight, at the centre of the yard, there the phantom of his dreams stood一you. Fireflies adorned your unravelled hair. The borrowed light illuminated your raised eyebrows and separated lips. Ah, your lips. Neteyam remembered the last time he tasted them. The day he lost you.

A barely audible gasp echoed in his ears. Your gasp. Dear Eywa, he had missed the way you breathed. The way you lived.

Discarding his bow, he took a step forward. It was shaky, just like his fingers that removed his own ikran riding visor. Your golden eyes widened, alarmed at his sudden appearance.

You gulped, abandoning the basket of fruits.

The human base was a deserted place that grew unique fruits and vegetables. Though the Na'vi condemned any location where the humans set foot, you worshipped the emptied places. You weren't the best huntress and sometimes; you want an easy dinner. Who wouldn't?

Tonight, you sneaked into a nearby base and foraged next week's rations. The last thing you expected was to find him.

“I know what you're thinking, Neteyam.”

So you knew how much he missed that voice? How much he craved to hear you say his name again?

“Staying away all those years. Why didn't I come back to you?”

No, that was the last thing on his mind. Neteyam could only conjure thoughts of you being alive. His mate was alive. In thinking so, a part of him also began to revive.

Neteyam was a complex man who learned to mask his true emotions. His father built it into him from the second he learned to walk. But right now, great mother, he surrendered. The walls he built around himself collapsed.

During this twinkle of time, breathing in the night mist, he was in his rawest form.

“The RDA was after your family and they've been hunting down the traitors of humanity.”

Neteyam continued his advance, glossy eyes glued on you the entire time.

At first, you held your ground. You could stand talking to him from a distance, albeit Neteyam was adamant to close said distance. Your legs faltered as you retreated.

In the background, you noticed his siblings. They're alive. All of them were. You missed them too, but right now, all you could focus on was the loud thumping of your heart. Your ribcage threatened to break with how rapid your heartbeat was. It was a miracle how you had yet to faint.

“Your father is a strong warrior. He can protect his family. But I can't.” Gradually, your back hit against a tree trunk. “A prodigy like you wouldn't understand, but it was the best option.”

Neteyam listened to you, like he always did. He understood where you were coming from: you were a scientist without prior combat experience. During the war, the only time you held a weapon was to hunt a small animal for food.

“My death guaranteed one less burden for you.”

He wanted to disagree, but his voice tangled at the base of his throat. Where you lacked in hunting, you made it up with your intelligence. That was one of the reasons you ended up surviving.

Neteyam had so many things to say, so many questions to ask. Nonetheless, he didn't want to interrupt you. What if he spoke and the mirage broke? What if you vanish before him? Oh, his poor heart wouldn't be able to handle it.

He shook his head, banishing that thought. Though it seemed his action led you to think he didn't believe you.

It maimed you, urging you to explain yourself better.

“I know I left you all alone. But don't you understand? That was my way of protecting you.”

Two years ago, they called a truce. After the war, the humans pledged to never walk on pandora land ever again. However, you understood how fickle human promises were. Paranoid, you vowed to hide yourself until your death.

“You must resent me, but I have no regrets.”

Your eyes shot all over the place. At one point, you shut tight them, hoping when you open them again, Neteyam would stop in his tracks.

To your surprise, he did. His hot breath fanned your face as you craned your neck to face him. He had matured into a strong and mighty warrior. Scars, both tiny and big, littered his blue skin. He had grown taller too, now towering over you and enveloping you in his shadow.

Disbelief marred his handsome face. A sense of nostalgia twanged his heartstrings. He had stared at you like this, ten years ago. As if you were the last thing he wanted to see and now the realisation of it all shocked him.

“Oh, don't be so silent, Neteyam.”

Your lips trembled.

His silence scared you. The minute he entered your view, you couldn't stop the words from flowing out of your mouth yet Neteyam hadn't spared you a single alphabet.

“Go on一scream, shout, say something.”

Neteyam cupped your cheek. His heart melted at how you instinctively leaned into his warm touch. It proved you were here, right now, right infront of him. Goosebumps rose on his skin to surface, and he became so sensitive.

The Great Mother must've appreciated his endeavours to protect his planet. This was her reward, her sign that she had witnessed his glory. She had returned you to him.

You're real.

Alive, healthy and breathtaking.

Once upon a time, he carved your face into his memory and sculpted your features out of his love. Be that as it may, nothing came close to your actual visage. The one he was holding onto as of now.

Neteyam found his voice, but it was fragile and soft.

A single tear escaped his eye.

“You're as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

reblogs are appreciated

( repost bc i was sort of shadow banned yst but i will make a pt2 ab them dancing and singing )

written by muse 2023

[wisekiwi123]

The S class that I raised vampire au: Prologue

( Hi everyone it's Kiwi, I will be officially writing this AU so please let me know if I make any mistakes since I am knew to writing fanfics. Hope you enjoy it )

original post for more info:

https://www.tumblr.com/wisekiwi123/747487646743396352/vampire-au-where-all-the-s-classes-are-vampires?source=share

***

“Happy birthday–”

“ Who hurt you hyung”

Yoojin paused as he watched his younger brother storm into the kitchen decorated with birthday decorations with a very sour look on his face. Ignoring the cake with eleven candles on the table Yoohyun began to expect the cast on his older brother's arm carefully, his frown becoming deeper with every second.

“There was a little accident at work today nothing too serious” Yoojin laughed nervously as he avoided direct eye contact with his brother  “ It will be healed in a few weeks anyway so how about we look at the birthday present I got you instead”

“ Hyung this is serious” Yoohyun shook his head “ Was it your co-workers again or maybe you taking on more dangerous jobs without telling me”

“I wouldn’t say dangerous—“

“So you are taking on more deadly jobs!” Yoohyun shouted before he started clenching his teeth tightly.

‘ His integration skills are getting better by the day’Yoojin lampooned to himself as Yoohyun continued to fret over his broken arm.

 It was true he was taking on more dangerous tasks but it was never anything he couldn’t handle. Being a vampire hunter was a very high-demanding job which often had well-paying quests that only a fool would miss out on. Besides it was his brother's birthday and he wanted to make it especially special so he may have taken on more rewarding jobs that were slightly harder than usual.

‘Even so, I should have been more careful’ Yoojin thought to himself as his free hand reached to pat his brother's hand.

 “It's because of me again isn’t…” Yoohyun whispered as his shoulders began to slump downwards “If I were born a normal human hyung would not have to work so hard. If I wasn’t a vampire hyung wouldn't  get hurt—

“Han Yoohyun that is enough” Yoojin firmly said with a solemn look on his face.“I told you before that I am not doing anything I don't want to do and you will never be a burden to me ever”

Yoojin’s hand reached out to pinch the side of Yoohyun’s cheek, he smiled largely as he spoke.

“I am your Big brother it's my job to look after you while it's your job to grow up well and live a good life. Sorry for making you worry  and I promise not to take risks on purpose”

“Promise  not  to take risks ever”

 “Ok now you're pushing it, I still need to make a living you know”

“Fine hyung but when I am older you will never have to work again since I will be strong enough  to protect you”

“Sounds like a plan but  make sure to study as well ok?”

Yoojin hugged Yoohyun as he laughed while Yoohyun smiled back slightly revealing a set of small fangs as he accepted his brother’s embrace.

“Now let me cut the cake after you blow out the candle ”

“Hyung no let me do it instead!”

“Fine if that's what the birthday boy wants”

The snow gently gathered by the window as the night sky remained starless as both brothers munched on cake. The red gift wrapping was discarded in the corner of the old kitchen’s bin along with some empty vials of blood.

The winter nights were often long but it was never lonely. Not on this practical night at least.

***

Small puffs of cold smoke escaped Yoojin's lips as he looked up at the starless night with nostalgia. Snow piled by his feet as he stood before humongous gates made of silver and gold which opened to a driveway that seemed to be freshly shovelled of any snow speck of snow.

Yoojin turned his eyes away from the sky to look directly at an obnoxiously grand mansion of substantial size at the end of the driveway. His gloved hand gripped a single piece of paper tightly as he swallowed dry spit.

‘I am sorry Yoohyun” Yoojin thought as he took a step past the gate

“Promises can only be kept if I see you again” He muttered dropping the the wrinkled paper on the frozen ground before taking large strides forward. A calculated risk the first of many.

The paper continues to lay upright and undisturbed on the snow. The words wanted vampire , dead and 50,000 are written in bold along with Han Yoohyun's face plastered right in the middle.

(next chapter is currently being made.Hope everyone has a great night/day )

[rippersz]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥’𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐝

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(A fem!reader x Lucifer Morningstar NSFW one-shot)

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Lucifer.

The sweetest end to a life of misery. The dimmed light at the end of a dark tunnel. The succubus of depraved dreams.

The very reason why you begged to be sent to Hell.

And, coincidentally, the very reason why you wanted to stay.

For, really, what was the use of residing in Heaven when God’s hair didn’t fall in perfect blonde curls? What was the use of dipping into paradise when the Lord’s eyes weren’t so piercing? Or when the Almighty’s lips didn’t curl up at the ends, like a mischievous cat that felt hunger clawing at its lungs? And what was the point of staying in nirvana when the lights hurt your eyes? And when the angels’ symphony was simply too damn loud?

That’s just it.

There is no point. There never was.

In your opinion, although the air smelled of sulfur and death and rotted campfire smoke, Hell was a much better place. It was warmer, for starters. And it was… it could be… eerily silent. You realized that early on into your job when you began cleaning Lucifer’s chambers on a daily basis. Because outside of that private space, the world was filled with the faintest screams of the damned. Constantly. Every day - morning to night, even though time in that realm worked in strange ways and could not often be measured. If you cared more, you were sure you’d find it maddening. But you didn’t care. There was no reason to. Because unlike those subjected to whatever punishment they deserved, you were favored. Sort of. Kind of. Well, maybe not entirely, but enough. You were favored enough.

After all, no one would expect Lucifer Morningstar to have a maid. Someone to polish the floors, wipe down the columns, sweep the stairs, make their bed and tend to the flames whenever they burned. Someone to dust the surfaces and make sure nothing was out of place. Someone to keep the Lightbringer’s world tidy.

And yet? Yet, there you were. Breathing in the strange hot air, sweating slightly in your constricting white uniform, getting down on your hands and knees or stretching tall or nearly bending over backwards to clean anything you could. To make sure that they wouldn’t notice a lack of proper upkeep because you took your job very seriously and to do something wrong or to miss a small speck of dust was to be crucified. No pun intended.

Though looking beyond that- looking beyond your ‘duty’ and your life… there was something else. A different sort of loyalty simmering beneath the surface of your skin. Begging to reveal itself any time you were around your employer. Your Master. You never said it, but you thought it. Often. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ ‘No, Your Majesty.’ ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ always translated to ‘Yes, Master.’ ‘No, Master.’ ‘Thank you, Master. Thank you so so much.’

You were almost certain that no other servant they had wished to refer to them as such, but you didn’t care. It was, after all, difficult not to be affected by them. By their power. By their mere existence. They were the rebellious. They were the dark. They were the end and the beginning. The bringer of light and death. They were the anti-Christ… the anti-life, as they had even claimed to be. And although you’d never admit it, that strange familiar heat that warmed and bubbled within your heart, was the very reason why you defected. Heaven may have taken you first, yes, but upon realizing how utterly… empty… it seemed, you realized it wasn’t what you wanted. It wasn’t fulfilling. It wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t exciting. And you hadn’t met the Creator, no, but that didn’t matter. When you complained, begged, argued, the angels grew sick. ‘Throw them to Hell, then. The silver city doesn’t need any more traitors.’ And it was then to the traitor’s realm that you went. Falling from the sky, sent by the Heavens; tumbling to the floor, received by Hell. Upon arrival, you wondered briefly if you had made a mistake. The air was too hot, the sounds were too much, the world was too gloomy. But then you looked up. Bruised and aching and breathing heavily on that marble floor, you looked up…

…and felt divinity for the first time ever.

For there- illuminated by flames and standing tall and lit with a glow that God simply didn’t have the power to take away- was the Lightbringer themself. Lucifer Morningstar. Goodness they were taller than you could ever imagine. And far more graceful… far more lethal. With great leathery wings of midnight and contrasting pale skin as smooth as porcelain; with strong tapered fingers and long limbs and such a sculpted side profile… you could do nothing but stare. In awe? Perhaps. Wonder? Most certainly. Love? Well… was that really possible? To love The Devil at first sight?

“What do we have here?” A voice, rich and deep and knowing filled the stagnant air; and thus confirmed that yes, actually, one could fall in love with Lucifer Morningstar a second after meeting them.

—

But memories such as that were only ones you held close to your chest when trying to sleep at night. No one would ever know them. No other demon, no other Lord, no other damned soul. For any memory, any dream, any wish you had where Lucifer’s name was mentioned were ones you wanted all for yourself. Yes, there were people (demons) out there who would understand your… infatuation, for lack of a better word, but that didn’t matter. In fact, that was exactly the reason why you wanted to keep such thoughts to yourself. Jealousy was the death of lovers, and Lucifer was a being you wanted all to yourself.

Well… as if that were possible.

Really, the only time you spent together was in your head. And outside of that, you merely passed them in the hall, reported to them in the morning and evening (hard regarding Hell’s time-zone but you figured it out), and showed up when summoned. Of course all you discussed was work and any upcoming events that the palace needed to prepare for, but other than that - nothing. Nothing at all.

You tried not to take it personally. The Devil was busy and you were just their maid. You kept their home tidy and they compensated you with room and board. That was that. And you tried to accept it, really you did; you tried so hard not to drape yourself over their bed when you cleaned it and you tried not to imagine what those cold fingers would feel like dragged upon your skin… but when you were waxing the floors on your hands and knees and the clicking of their heels could be heard from down the hall- your mind lost control. It ran rampant. It turned fuzzy, dripping into a strange ‘shut-off mode’ that focused solely on Lucifer. Solely on Lucifer and solely on the desire that ran through your body at the very thought of them.

Them… with those strong wings and long fingers and soft jawline… with those sharp high heels and that penetrating gaze. Knowing everything, seeing everything. Spiraling with something sultry, burning right through you, matching the dark wickedness of their lips. Oh those lips… they made an appearance quite frequently within your dreams. Caressing the hill of your shoulder, pressing to the soft insides of your thighs… such gentle perfect lips, literally carved by something divine. Admittedly, they seemed flawless from afar, but you knew the truth. You knew that there was a single scar on the right side of their upper lip; it blended in with the paleness of their skin, but your eyes had memorized its location. Your eyes snapped to it when they spoke. Your eyes traced its shape; wider at its northern tip and thinner toward the bottom, where it ran into the delightfully pink flesh of their lip. Your eyes stroked the tiny flaw and yearned to feel its depth beneath your tongue. Your eyes… and your eyes only. For no one, perhaps save one or two powerful beings, had gotten as close to them as you had.

It was one time, when you had first started. Mopping wasn’t that hard of a task, but at the time you were inexperienced and unaware. Specifically when The Devil themself was standing behind you, observing your attention to detail as you wet and re-wet the same spot over and over again. And it was only when they cleared their throat, gravelly and low, that you had gotten a fright. You nearly jumped 20 feet in the air as you let out a gasp, turned around, stepped back, and of course promptly fell right on your ass. You would always remember the confusion that swirled around in your little mind as Lucifer stood over you, watching with amusement. They were pressed against the world, as tall as a skyscraper, larger than life and stronger than destiny. Stronger than fate. Stronger than any other seraphic being to ever exist. And you were nothing beneath their heel. You were nothing in comparison to them. And for some reason- for some twisted, maddening, intoxicating reason- you found that inexplicably attractive. You found that unbelievably desirable. You found that far more bewitching than anything else in the world. And whether they noticed that or not didn’t particularly matter as, in the next moment, they leaned over. Bending at their slim waist, placing one hand on their hip, reaching out with the other and delicately wrapping cold fingers around your jaw. The touch made you short-circuit, causing your eyes to widen like a scared puppy’s as you stared up at them with wonder and fear and a myriad of other exhilarating emotions. You weren’t sure if they could see the way your heart was surging within your chest, pushing at your rib cage and begging to be swallowed whole and torn apart by those perfectly imperfect white teeth, but- again- it didn’t matter. That wouldn’t have stopped them from the way they tugged you forward, dragging you through the soapy water; or from the way they leaned down, slow and scary, purposefully making you wait for their words. And you played into it all, hanging on by a thread as your throat bobbed with the effort to hold back a sudden whimper.

Then soft lips parted; blue eyes, tinged with a brown and green ring around the pupil, stared; and you noticed the scar in that second. You noticed it and you felt your mind melt out of your ears.

“Careful, maid,” The Devil purred, “wouldn’t want you to break anything now, would we?” And although it was just a moment, being there with them like that felt like a lifetime. You remembered that their breath smelled of figs, and wine, and something akin to metal - blood, you had guessed some time later. And because you didn’t have a response then, Lucifer let you go. They pushed your face away with a strong hand, leaving you to scramble and press back onto your palms. The feeling of their touch lingered as they stepped away, donning their familiar sneer, and clutching their hands before them. “Clean this up,” and they turned to leave, “Otherwise you’ll have more than a few broken bones to nurse.”

And once again, you were left alone.

—

For some time after that, you were sure you had dreamed it. The mind, after all, could conjure powerful images when knee-deep in admiration; and you were well-past that point. But upon seeing the scar again in the light, when they were looking over one of their flames, you realized it had been real. It had all been real. And thoughts of them continued to create mountains in your head, and make your fingers twitch while you fell into dreams, and left a searing heat boiling in the depths of your abdomen when you woke up. It was terrible. It was everything. You wished you could feel their touch again. You wished, all the time, that you didn’t have to imagine their longer fingers pressing onto your tongue and making you drool. Or that you didn’t have to infer what it would be like to kneel before them and put your lips to their leathery boots and kiss and lick away the ash and dust that gathered there. And for as much as you did enjoy fantasizing, thinking such things was beginning to mess with your job; keeping you distracted as you nearly burned yourself against the fire while cleaning the bowl that held it.

Sometimes, only when you were alone in bed, you wondered what it would have been like if you hadn’t asked to be sent to Hell. Perhaps you’d be pampered amongst the clouds; drinking anything you wanted and feasting on anything you wanted and feeling the love of anyone you wanted. Or maybe you’d still feel the emptiness that overcame you when you first arrived at those pearly gates. Maybe you’d still feel unsatisfied and cheated and terribly curious about what lurked on the other side of mortality. What sludged along beneath Earth and the Heavens. Yes, maybe you’d still yearn to be in Lucifer’s grasp; even though, in that timeline, you never met them.

Goodness, what a terrible thought. To have never met the Lightbringer? To have never seen their smirk or their glare or that damned scar on their lip? That sounded horrid. Honestly you preferred not to exist at all rather than be devoid of their presence. So thank goodness it was all just a thought; a dip into the wonders of ‘what could’ve been’ - and thank goodness you fell asleep each night within that hot air, breathing in the scents of Lucifer’s domain, and knowing that somewhere nearby they paced the halls or lounged within their chambers. That knowledge in particular was rather nice; it was comforting to know you were safe; claimed by the second most powerful being in the universe. There was a hierarchy within the palace, yes, but that didn’t matter. You were their maid. No one could touch you.

And if anyone dared to test that theory… well you had become aware of the consequences some time ago. The group of important demons due at the palace during that time weren’t very nice to you. From wandering eyes to thinly veiled threats- they had smelled your ‘fresh blood’ the moment they stepped into Lucifer’s hall. But then promptly forgot where they were. And who they were talking to. And who owned the person they were talking to. Safe to say, only someone with a death wish would comment on your white uniform.

But despite that, you wore it with pride.

The mark of the prettiest Angel- having fallen and survived. Pure white, reminiscent of the highest honor; the softest wings, the most saintly color. You wore it and you wore it well. The skirt was knee-length and comfortable, the puffy sleeves were short and didn’t chafe, and the collar was high, hugging the sides of your throat in a similar fashion to the one beautiful garment that Lucifer wore from time to time. You enjoyed the thought of matching with them… you enjoyed the implications of being theirs. And although you weren’t allowed to wear any jewelry, that never stopped you from admiring the pieces they owned. Resting comfortably in an ornate box that sat atop their dresser were different types of rings and even one or two necklaces and a single set of earrings. They were all made of real gems/silver/gold, but you knew that The Devil didn’t particularly care for riches. They had it all. One less diamond wouldn’t kill them. And that was, perhaps, another reason as to why you couldn’t help but feel weak when they slid into your mind.

Such a powerful being… so nonchalant… and they spoke so slowly… so deeply… and they walked with such height… and had the prettiest lips… and the longest fingers…

“This doesn’t look like cleaning to me, little maid.”

Your heart did a somersault within your chest as you looked up. Your eyes were wide. Their eyes were heavy-lidded. Amused. Looking down at you as they stood with their fingertips pressed together in front of their waist, standing and haloed by dark wings. All you could do then, stuck beneath their attention, was swallow harshly and try to control the sudden shaking that overcame your body.

You’d been caught red-handed. Literally. Standing beside their bed, staring at the silk blood red sheet that ran against your palms, held tightly in your hands. It was halfway off the mattress and spilling a bit onto the floor, and you were caught in the middle of your own mess. A change of sheets rested on an armchair behind you, but that didn’t matter. You were caressing the fabric with your thumbs. You were basking in its softness. And you had lost track of time, too focused on your own memories- your own depraved thoughts- to realize that The Devil themself could walk in at any moment. It was their room, after all. Complete with a large four-poster canopy bed, a distinguished vanity, a set of armchairs and a table, bookshelves that lined the far wall, and two other doors that led to their bathroom and closet. It was, admittedly, your favorite place to be in the entire palace. The fireplace was always burning - the colors of the room were a good mix of onyx, crimson, and gold - and the smell there was far different than the smell in any other part of the underworld. For instead of anguish and sin, the air toyed with the light scents of freshly blown out candles, jasmine, and vanilla. Every time you walked in there to clean, you took a deep warm breath and resisted the urge to curl up on their bed and take a nap.

Though as you stood before them, on the other side of their half-covered mattress, you wished you had previously dared to fall asleep there before. It would have been a fascinating story to harbor after being banished, considering The Devil most likely didn’t care for those who caressed their divine bedding.

“Just what exactly were you doing?” Their voice came again, breaking your mind’s descent into the clouds and instantly yanking it back down to Hell.

A quick nervous glance up told you that Lucifer wasn’t angry. No, they were more amused than anything else. But then again, that seemed to be their constant state of existence around you. As though you were a dumb little puppy who didn’t know how to do much beyond cleaning and when they caught you thinking, they thought it was funny. And perhaps it was funny. You did often lose your voice around The Devil, so you may just as well have acted like a scared little animal in their presence…

…was that what you were doing then? Glancing every which way, unable to make eye contact, feeling the heat of the fire seep into your skin? Shaking slightly and secretly wishing that they’d grab you by the arm, throw you onto the bed, and have their wicked way with you?

Well… the more you thought about it, the more time you wasted. So you swallowed your tongue and cleared your throat.

“I was- um- cleaning, Your Majesty,” you bowed your head and clutched your hands in front of you.

A small hum filled the air. You felt your heartbeat on your tongue.

“Are you certain, little maid?” They spoke softly, deeply, running their fingertips along the edge of the mattress before pulling their hand back and assessing the state of their skin. “Because to me, it seemed as though you were rather… distracted.” And Lucifer smirked upon seeing the cleanliness of their fingertips.

And while they did that, feeling a strange sense of pride and lust curl up within their being, you felt your heart drop.

Distracted….

of course…

…They knew.

They knew.

One could never keep anything from The Devil; so why in the underworld did you think you were any different? Why did you think you could keep something like sin away from the Lightbringer’s eyes? They were always so careful with words - always so choosy - always one step ahead… and they knew.

They knew about the needy little dreams that plagued your nights. They knew about the blush that you woke up with, and the shake in your knees when you got into the shower and found your own hands wandering from your chest to your thighs. They knew about the heat that bubbled between said thighs, and how the ache- the terrible burning enticing ache- pushed you to take care of it in the only way you knew how. With searching fingers and light touches and soft moans muffled by the white fabric of your pillow; with distracting thoughts and lewd whimpers and sinful pleas- begging and begging and begging the Lightbringer, The Devil, to pleasure you until your heart melted against your insides. They knew about all that and they knew about the little whispers you spoke to yourself when the water spilled from behind the curtain and dripped down your face and created the perfect cover up.

Or… what you thought was the perfect cover up.

In reality, it seemed there was no place in Hell that The Devil could not reach. That The Devil could not hear. That included your shower. Your bath. The bed you writhed in at night when you imagined their teeth attacking the flesh of your chest. And your tummy. And your thighs. And your neck and calves and back… And in a similar sense, they heard every single thing you murmured to yourself when the flames in your room were extinguished. The faint cries of ‘Master’ as you let the soap slide down your arms; the muted whines of ‘Yes yes yes right there-’ as the steam pressed to your bathroom mirror; the mewls that escaped from your wanting lips, hugging the tile of your shower, incriminating you with every little noise…

Oh they heard it all.

And because of that- you were completely and utterly fucked.

“My my… such a strong heartbeat. One could even say you were- frightened.” Their voice was closer than it was before, and when you blinked, you found that they were slowly- slowly slowly slowly- crawling onto the bed.

Your body froze as you watched two large hands press into the mattress, swiftly followed by a knee. They were clad in a rich mahogany leather; an outfit that clung to the muscles in their arms and legs, spanning broad across their chest and still leaving room for their wings. Oh those wings… Twitching gently as they stalked toward you. You, being their prey. You, being their victim.

And as soon as that realization clicked into your slow silly little mind, you did the only thing you could think to do when filled with terror: you begged.

“Pl-please, your Majesty- I- I am so so sorry for my behavior. I have been inappropriate and- and- disrespectful and stupidly idiotic. I promise you it will not happen again, please, I am begging you- please understand, I-” you stopped.

You stopped, abruptly silenced by the slim finger that pressed itself to your lips. Their skin was just as chilled as you remembered it. And their eyes, when you looked up into them, were far more entrancing than they had ever been. As if The Devil simply could not help the way their very soul reacted to your submissive behavior. ‘Such a silly little maid,’ they were probably thinking to themself, ‘such a silly little maid with her silly little outfits and needy little sins. The poor thing had no idea that I heard it all….

…And the poor thing has no idea what I will do to her because of it.’

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Hope you enjoyed! I will be working on requests for a bit now and taking a short break from my other fic. I have not watched The Sandman so if some things are wrong, I apologize. I do hope I also did well with Lucifer’s characterization. If I did not, I again apologize. Thank you for reading. - Ripley

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[fortune-fool02]

A Tender Moment

Jack Krauser x female reader

Summary: A soft moment between Krauser and his lover.

Warnings: No spoilers for RE4 Remake, fluff. 

I couldn’t help myself, I needed to write for this man. Feedback and comments are highly appreciated! Thank you for reading! Sorry if this is a bit short.

Please enjoy.

Moments like this were few and far between. The night sky was still and silent, a mass of inky darkness disturbed only by specks of silver stars and the occasional cloud passing by. A faint breeze passed their window but it was barely even a whisper.

[Name] took a soft, quiet breath before rolling over a little, her eyes peeking over her shoulder to look at the man laying beside her. Krauser’s back faced her, the silhouette of his body moving steadily as he breathed softly. The rise and fall of those strong shoulders that often left her weak in the knees. Krauser slept shirtless tonight rather than in the vests he often did, the temperature just a little too warm for his liking. Her eyes lightly trailed along the few scars littered along his back, a part of her wanting to lean forward and kiss along them as she often did, a comforting gesture that both of them shared. 

While Krauser seemed to be sleeping, [Name] couldn’t find her own peace for it. No matter how she tried. Carefully rolling over fully, trying not to disturb Krauser, she moved closer to his sleeping form. His build was larger than her own but she didn’t mind it one bit. Her arm moved along his waist, her hand resting flat against his stomach as she nuzzled against him a little. The heat of his body comforting despite the warm night. 

“You’ve got a thing for trying to be a big spoon, don’t you?” Krauser’s voice spoke softly, surprising her a little to see he was actually awake. A light chuckle left her lips at this before nodding against him. 

“It’s not my fault you’re nice to cuddle.” She pointed out, pressing a light kiss on his shoulder blade. His hand moved and rested over hers, the size difference between them was almost funny as she interlocked his fingers with hers, pressing herself against his back more. “Like a big, mean teddy-bear.” [Name] added, a teasing smile on her lips. 

“Oh, a teddy-bear, eh?” Krauser hummed, looking over his shoulder at her. The scar along his face catching in the moonlight. She smiled softly, the scar had never bothered her. If anything, it only reminded her how strong he was. When he first came home with it, still raw and in the throws of healing, she couldn’t help but hug the man, thankful that he was alright and alive. Though he never told her how he obtained it, she never pushed him to tell her. 

Instead, whenever he came home with a new wound or anything along the lines of such, she would simply take him into her arms and kiss him. She would hold him together, keeping him from falling apart entirely. Even if Krauser didn’t show it, she could feel it. 

“Yep.” She leaned up a bit more and kissed his cheek, “My big, angry teddy-bear.” A soft chuckle rumbled from him as she spoke before he readjusted himself, turning around to face her, his eyes looking down at her a little. His pale eyes gazing down at her, for a moment, she was certain they lightly glowed in the dark. His large arms snaked around her waist, pulling her up against his chest. A light smile tugging his lips as he leaned down, capturing her lips with his in a slow, deep kiss. 

[Name] smiled at this, her hand raising up and gently stroking his cheek as she kissed back. His lips soft against hers, even with the slight roughness of the scar that nicked his lips. It felt good to her. The light roughness of his hands brushed against her skin, leaving light goosebumps in their wake. His hands were always something she liked. Their shape. Their callous texture. How his fingers moved whenever he was twirling one of his knives, their fluid movements that made it look so simple and yet so enchanting to watch. His hands that could inflict such a brutal, strong punch and yet they held a softness, gentle care whenever he touched her. 

Her hands moved around, grabbing his and bringing them up to her lips, pressing soft, delicate kisses along his knuckles. Krauser didn’t speak a word, he laid there, his eyes watching her every little move. Her lips were gentle, sweet, softer than anything he had ever felt before. If she knew what those knuckles had done to people. The blood they spilt. The vile nature they took on when he would allow them to, how they would distort beyond recognition. Mutate... 

That was something he would ensure she never found out. What she didn’t know would not hurt her. 

But he couldn’t stop the smile that lifted his lips as she kissed them. Her lips pressing a kiss on each knuckle individually before she held his hands close to her chest, holding them close to her with a warm smile on her lips. His fingers interlocked with hers, holding her close as he kissed her head. “Get some sleep, love.” He hummed, savouring the comfort of holding her close, of her in his arms. 

"I don't want to." [Name] softly protested, holding his arms more and kissing along his hands more. "I'm going to stay awake and kiss your hands all night along." Krauser smiled at this, chuckling softly at her.

"I give you five minutes before you're asleep."

[chocolatecoveredfanfics]

Andromeda's Lullaby (Prologue)

Heartsteel X Fem!Reader Multi-Chapter Pairings: Reader/Heartsteel Boys, Reader/Alune, Reader/Original Characters (Fem), Original Characters/Original Characters Tags: Reverse Harem, unrequited love, reincarnation(?), More to be added Divider Credit

When you opened your eyes, the first thing that greeted your sight was an endless sea of stars. Your body felt light, like you were floating. Attempting to blink away your drowsiness, you brought a hand up to rub at your eyes but paused at the sight that greeted you. Wispy blue, like fire with glittering specks of silver. Your hand, your whole body was translucent. Confused and dazed, you looked around. Attempting to find anything, anyone that could help you. But your answers would soon be answered. “Congratulations once again, for completing your mission.” Your head snapped up at the deep booming voice that echoed in the space. Your eyes were met with a similar being, but he was cloaked in white and had four arms crossed against his chest. And then, finally everything came rushing back.

“I see your memories are intact once more. Wonderful. You are closer to your goal.”

You clenched your fists and frowned, “...That wasn’t the last- but you said!”

“Unfortunately, a new discovery was made.”

“And she’s there… Right?” He nodded at your question. You took a deep breath, attempting to gain the courage to ask your next question. “Will you be there?”

Silence greeted you and you bowed your head to stare at the endless midnight. Tears brimmed your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Refused to show weakness.

“Fine. I’m ready.” You spoke in a flat, emotionless tone. He nodded and the space behind you opened. You turned to face the open space and your gaze fell upon a night sky full of skyscrapers and lights. “Goodbye, Father.”

“We’ll meet again soon.” Was your response. Your being began to be pulled towards this new world, this new reality. Your eyes closed and you prayed, for whatever higher benign watching you, that this time would be different.

“Please…”