#sorry if this is a little scrambled its late at night

[planefood]

Autism and Isolation, discussing my experience and my characters

I think i've said here before that my robot characters represent my experience growing up disabled where I live. My characters being robots specifically were made to represent feelings of being made to feel less human in some way due to it. While all my characters in that story are on the spectrum and represent different parts of my experience, I used Mikey as the cover of this post because he represents a certain part of myself that makes me incredibly attached to him (there's a reason I say I like writing him so much, despite him not being the main protagonist). He's the part of me that understands I need help with things but is too afraid to ask leaving me in horrible positions, he's the part of me who screams in public when I feel trapped, he's the part of me that could probably never live by myself, he's the part of me who's scared and vulnerable. Among other things. But also he's the part of me who, like many of my peers, feels isolated in everyday spaces and autistic spaces alike due to peoples perceptions of what autism "should" be, these same people welcome fidget toys and stimming with open arms turn around and think its okay to call me the r slur or infantalise me or make fun of until I cry. But I only cry because I thought i'd be welcomed in those spaces with my autistic peers and I cry because I told my younger self it would get better and people would be nicer to us once we were an adult with like minded people. These same people who, despite being open and proud about supporting neurodiversity still think its okay to use the word autistic as an insult against me. I feel like while people appear so much more accepting of disabled people with these small gestures than I was when I was growing up, I still feel like an outsider in these spaces but this time it feels like I've hit a wall. Like a, "who will support me if the people who are meant to don't?" it leads to a lot of insecurity and self loathing, it makes me feel like I'm not autistic in the "right way" and there's just something wrong with me as a person. I wrote these into Mikey, which makes him seem like he has a 'thin skin' to people like Tandy. Mikey, in my story, is often left behind or teased by other characters in my story even the ones who are also on the spectrum. They also struggle with their own battles with facing ableism and self hatred due to it but don't realise the first step to tackling that is unpacking how they treat others around them. You'll never be able to love your true authentic autistic self if you throw ableist rhetoric at people around you. That includes saying shit like "I'm autistic and I don't act like that guy does whats their excuse" or "I'm not making fun of them because they're autistic they just act weird" I'm low support needs autistic, I've seen how people treat high support needs autistic people and its even more sickening, other low support needs autistic people like to pretend they don't exist or throw them under the bus to make themselves more appealing to ableists: "See autistic people don't actually act like that, support me because I can mask" or even trying to say autism isn't a disability. My characters and writing while being a representation of myself being disabled is also a scathing criticism of the cruelty I see in the world at large, the cruelty I see in other people in ND and disabled communities and the cruelty I see within myself. I get scared about my future with how people treat me, but when I have characters I can write these struggles into it makes it a little easier. I know there's people who love me for who I am and there's people out there who love you guys for who you are too.

[littlelamy]

you were right!

a/n: okay, i know you guys might be tired of me doing these but this is my last one! i hope you all like it 😜 gifs from @rafeyscurtainbangs

The blazing Moroccan sun beats down on Rafe, its intensity mirrored by the firestorm raging in his mind. Dust hangs in the air around him, adding to the harshness of the moment as he stands over the well. Below, Groff coughs and groans, his face contorted in pain, but Rafe barely spares him a second glance. His rage overpowers everything else, even the satisfaction he should feel. He narrows his eyes, voice laced with anger and finality.

“Checkmate, bitch!” he yells down, his words slicing through the hot, tense air. The motorcycle engine he’d used to get out here sits idle a few feet away, rumbling like his frustration.

He turns on his heel, muttering a curse, fists clenched. As he stalks away from the well, he pulls out his phone and dials Sofia’s number, his chest tight with the realization that everything he thought he knew was a lie.

Sofia answers after two rings, her voice as casual as if he hadn’t just found out about her betrayal. “Hey, babe, what’s up ?”

Rafe’s voice is steely, cold. “Is it true? Is it true, what Groff just told me? Is it?”

The silence on her end is all he needs. He can practically hear her scrambling for words, but she never manages to answer. His face twists in anger.

“Pack your shit. Get out of my house,” he snarls, a final, unforgiving edge in his voice. “God, after everything I did for you? We’re done. Done.” He hangs up before she can say another word, shoving his phone back into his pocket with a bitter scoff. Betrayed, twice over—and he’d ignored the only person who saw it coming.

He stands there, baking in the Moroccan heat, his mind racing back to a month ago in Kildare, when you and he had argued over Sofia. You’d warned him that she wasn’t who she seemed. He’d brushed you off, accusing you of jealousy—knowing damn well that there was more to it. You were his best friend, but it was complicated; that line had already been crossed too many times, with late-night kisses and tangled sheets. But you two hadn’t spoken since that fight, since the way he’d brushed you off had hurt deeper than either of you cared to admit.

Taking a breath, he pulls out his phone again, fingers hovering over your name. He hesitates, swallowing his pride, before finally pressing call.

The phone rings, and you pick up after a few moments, your voice tight with annoyance. “What, Rafe?”

Your tone makes him pause, but the way you sound almost comforts him, even with the irritation clear in your voice. You’re there—back in Kildare, probably sitting cozy in your little apartment. Meanwhile, he’s out here under the scorching sun, alone, trying to piece together his pride.

He clears his throat. “Hey… princess,” he says, voice softened, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. He can almost feel you rolling your eyes on the other end, but he presses on, the words weighing heavy on him. “I—uh… Look, I’m sorry. You were right.”

There’s a surprised pause, and he hears you shift in your seat as if you’re debating whether to hang up or let him speak. When you do answer, your tone is a bit softer, cautious.

“What happened?”

Rafe lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Turns out Sofia was exactly who you said she was. A snake. And here I was, thinking you were just being… petty. But I guess I’m the idiot, huh?”

You breathe out, and he can picture you shaking your head, lips pressed together. “You wouldn’t listen,” you say quietly, as if the words hold more hurt than anger.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, the frustration evident in his voice. “I know. I was so damn sure you were just jealous. I mean—” He pauses, grappling with how to say it. “Hell, I thought you were jealous because you… I don’t know. I thought you didn’t want me with her because we…” His voice trails off, but the implication lingers between you.

“Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I get it.”

Rafe bites his lip, letting the words sink in. “Can I see you? I’m done here in a few days, and I could be back in Kildare very soon. I could stop by, explain… properly.”

A beat passes, and when you finally speak, it’s careful, guarded. “After everything you said last time, why should I?”

He laughs softly, almost self-deprecating. “Because I think you might be the only person I can trust right now. And… I miss you.” His voice drops, laced with a warmth he can’t help. “Even if you’re just going to gloat and rub it in my face.”

You chuckle, and he smiles, savoring the sound. “I don’t know if I miss you or if I just feel sorry for you,” you tease, but the playfulness is back in your tone, if only faintly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, amusement lacing his words. “Act like you don’t care. But come on, you miss me. Admit it.”

A small silence follows, and he imagines the way your lips twitch into a smile. Finally, you relent. “Maybe a little. But you’re bringing wine. Good wine.”

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he says, the flirtation back in his voice. “Only the best for you.”

You scoff, but he hears the hint of a laugh. It’s the closest thing he’s had to a good moment in a long time. He takes a breath, savoring the thought of leaving this mess behind and getting back to Kildare—back to the only person who knew him well enough to call him out, and care anyway. As the call ends, he puts his phone in his pocket, a grin spreading across his face, motivating him to get that crown and go to his princess.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif

[xxgoldie]

ns/fw ramblings - minors dni

ik we all like to imagine lighter as some sort of sex god - it comes with the territory of a confident n hot male character. but the more I think abt how much of a down-bad dork he is, the more the idea of him being a virgin, or at least having very little experience, is so so delicious to me. like, he could absolutely fuck if he wanted to, he canonically has fangirls, but he's a sap and he wants to wait for the right person. not to say he isn't horny - he fs watches porn and his head is full of fantasies.

imagine your relationship reaching that point, messily making out while you grind on his lap, both of you in nothing but your underwear. being able to touch all of you like this, the feeling of your clothed crotch rubbing against his, the soft little noises you made when your clit pressed against him - all infinitely better than his wildest fantasies, and he doesn't think to stop you until its already too late and he's cumming in his boxers with a stuttered groan.

he hadn't told you it was his first time. he had meant to, but things got hot and heavy before he got the chance, and he didn't exactly know how to slip it into conversation when you were taking your shirt off. it certainly looked like you were putting the pieces together now, a brief silence falling over you as you realised what had happened.

"lighter, did you just-" "i. i am so sorry-" "hey, don't apologise. are you okay?"

you aren't mad, visibly more surprised than disappointed, but even as you reassure him, his thoughts spiral. he finally found his person, finally felt ready to do this, and he'd gone and fucked it up. your sweet words fly in one ear and out the other, only making him feel more guilty that you were being so nice about it. he wanted to make you feel good, recreate all his late-night fantasies where fucked you until you couldn't think about anything but the feel of him, catering to your pleasure over and over again - you deserved that. yet here he was, falling apart at your slightest touch.

he only really snaps out of it when you kiss him, feather-light against his lips. your finger is tracing soft patterns against his bare chest, the feeling grounding him.

"trust me, love, its okay. i'll take it as a compliment."

there's a slight teasing glint in your eye - not making fun of him, but showing him this wasn't a big deal. when you kiss him again, he deepens it, as if he's trying to push all his scrambled thoughts of love and devotion from his mind to yours. your hips had been hovering over his, but you lowered yourself back into his lap as the rhythm of your tongues intensified. he almost felt relieved when he felt his dick twitch back to life.

"i really am sorry, baby." "i told you, you have nothing to apologise for. besides-" you wiggled your hips a little, drawing a sensitive hiss from his lips "-it feels like you're getting ready to make it up to me."

it may be an awkward start to his first time, but when he finally feels you sink down onto him, lighter feels like he's just found a heaven he's been waiting his whole life for. you feel impossibly good around him, but he thinks that even if his dick was numb, he could cum just from watching you - your low whine as he fills you up, the way your whole body tenses at the stretch then relaxes into pleasure, how you have to brace against his chest when he starts to thrust up into you.

he doesn't last long this time, either - any stamina he had built up by jacking off was for naught when you felt so much better than his hand. but he's so eager to please, a newfound addiction to the way your hips buck and eyes roll back. he makes you cum with his fingers, experimenting to see what makes you tick, eyes roaming your body and logging every little twitch and keen, confidence skyrocketing every time you praise him or beg for more. he's a fast learner - he has to be, he wants to see you fall apart like that over and over and over again.

(okay this turned out WAY longer than I intended it to be but I'm brainrotting so hard abt him, like can you blame me. also this is completely unedited and i wrote it one go lmao)

[cookielixie]

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐞 || 𝐥.𝐟. 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

A group of meddling friends, a sprig of mistletoe, and a month full of holiday mischief—what could go wrong? For Y/n and Felix, their obliviousness to their own feelings is only rivaled by their friends’ determination to push them together. As December unfolds, so do a series of awkward, sweet, and unexpected moments that might just make this Christmas unforgettable. 

pairing: lee felix x reader

wordcount: 8k

genre/warnings: college!au, best friends to lovers, friends meddling, mistletoe mishaps, awkward encounters, two very oblivious idiots, suggestive content (like a tiny bit), tooth rotting fluff, mentions of alcohol and partying and a smidge of angst. I guess minsung if u squint

A/N: This has been a wip for like... three years now lmao. i really hope you guys like it, feedback and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated <3 also english is not my first language... so yeah sorry if there are any mistakes

It all started with something simple—shared morning lattes and soft exchanges of “good morning” during your early lectures. Those small, fleeting moments quietly grew into endless hours spent together, until you and Felix became nearly inseparable. The group noticed quickly. The way your laughter came easier when he was around, the way his eyes lingered on you when he thought no one was looking—it was hard to miss. And though you both insisted it was just friendship, the boys could see the truth: you were smitten, both of you, even if you were too stubborn or oblivious to admit it.  

As the year went on, the group quietly rooted for something more to happen. There was an undeniable chemistry between you, a natural ease that left everyone wondering when—not if—you’d finally realize your feelings for each other. But no matter how much teasing or hinting was thrown your way, you both deflected it with flustered laughs and hasty denials. Every attempt to nudge you closer ended the same, with perfect excuses and an almost comical level of obliviousness.  

Eventually, the boys eased off, figuring you’d figure it out on your own. But when December rolled around, your dynamic began to shift. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, or maybe it was just the closeness that winter seemed to bring, but the two of you became even more inseparable—more clingy, more obviously something.  

It was late November when the group gathered at Chan’s place, watching the two of you from afar and exchanging knowing looks. They’d waited long enough. If gentle teasing and subtle hints weren’t going to work, maybe it was time to take matters into their own hands. Armed with a sprig of mistletoe, a little holiday mischief, and a determination to finally get you two to confess, they began crafting their foolproof plan. This Christmas, one way or another, you and Felix would stop denying what everyone else already knew.  

December 1st:

To kick off the Christmas season, everyone had gathered at Changbin’s for the monthly movie night. Everyone except you and Felix, of course, who were running late after your evening lecture together. The rest of the group had already settled in: Jisung and Minho were cracking open beers and chatting by the couch, Chan and Seungmin were busy piling blankets and pillows onto every available surface, while Hyunjin and Jeongin hovered over the snacks, stealing bites when they thought no one was looking.  

Changbin, meanwhile, was in the kitchen, leaning over the counter with a frantic expression and sweat beading on his forehead. His white t-shirt clung to him, dark spots blooming around the neckline. He’d spent the last hour scrambling to prepare what could only be described as a chaotic masterpiece.  

He held the item up in his hands, tilting it left and right under the kitchen light to inspect its durability. It was a long, slender branch, stripped of its excess twigs and carefully wrapped in duct tape. At the tip dangled a sprig of mistletoe, the final touch to what he jokingly called his “cupid’s staff.” After months of teasing, jokes, and failed schemes to push you and Felix closer, drastic measures were now on the table.  

“Hey, you almost done in here?” Chan’s head popped around the doorframe, startling Changbin. “They’re on their way.”  

Changbin glanced at his creation one last time before sighing. “I have no idea if this’ll work,” he muttered, holding it like a fragile relic.  

Chan smirked, his eyes turning into crescents. “It’s worth a shot. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.” He gave Changbin an encouraging pat on the shoulder before disappearing back into the living room. Changbin rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning as he cleaned up the remnants of his “art project.”  

When you and Felix finally arrived, your shared giggles preceded you, drawing attention as you stepped through the door. The others didn’t waste a second guiding you both to the loveseat—a small, almost comically cramped piece of furniture. You were forced to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, your legs draped casually across Felix’s lap. The closeness didn’t seem to bother either of you, and soon a comfortable silence fell over the room as the opening credits of the movie began to roll.  

Changbin bided his time, waiting until everyone was engrossed in the movie before slipping away to retrieve his cupid’s branch. “Bathroom break,” he muttered, his heart pounding as he snuck the mistletoe stick out of its hiding spot.  

Returning to the room, he carefully hid the branch behind his back as he took his seat. Minho noticed immediately, raising a brow and stifling a laugh, which, of course, drew your attention.  

“What’s so funny, Min?” you asked, glancing over.  

Changbin shot Minho a deadly glare, silently mouthing, Don’t you dare. Minho, however, didn’t even glance back at him. Instead, he deadpanned, “Changbin’s face. It’s just… always funny.”  

The group erupted into laughter, with Seungmin letting out a snort loud enough to shake the pillows. “Minho, I swear, one of these days, I’m going to drop a dumbbell on you at the gym,” Changbin snapped, though the threat lacked any real malice.  

Minho gasped dramatically, turning away with an exaggerated pout. “Whatever, I’m cuddling Jisung now. At least he appreciates me.”  

Jisung, already sitting beside him, slung an arm over Minho’s shoulders. “I got you, Min,” he said with mock sincerity.  

The laughter settled, and everyone turned back to the screen. Everyone except Changbin, who gripped his mistletoe stick like it was Excalibur, waiting for the perfect moment. He threw a quick glance in your direction and couldn’t help but smirk. Your head was now leaning against Felix’s shoulder, your face nestled into the crook of his neck, while his hand rested lightly on your thigh. Felix’s ears were burning red, a clear giveaway of how flustered he was despite his calm expression. You’re making this way too easy for me, Changbin thought, adjusting his grip on the branch.  

Unbeknownst to Changbin, your thoughts were far away from the movie. When did he become so beautiful? you wondered for the hundredth time since you’d met Felix. Tonight, though, the thought felt heavier as you stared at the way the TV’s soft light highlighted his freckles, making his eyes shine like little suns. You’d accepted your feelings for him a long time ago, even if you were convinced they weren’t mutual. You’d come to terms with it—being his friend was enough, wasn’t it? But moments like this, so close to him, made it harder to ignore the small ache in your chest.  

Meanwhile, Felix was doing everything in his power not to look down at you. His heart raced every time your breath fanned against his neck, and the weight of your legs draped over his lap was making it impossible to think straight. He clenched his jaw, his thoughts a chaotic mess. Stop being ridiculous. She doesn’t like you like that. But even as he told himself that, a part of him wished—hoped—that maybe he was wrong.  

That’s when Changbin made his move. Slowly, he leaned forward, positioning the mistletoe just above you and Felix. At first, Felix didn’t notice—his focus was entirely on not pulling you closer. But when a faint movement caught the corner of his eye, his head shot up. His eyes landed on the mistletoe, and his entire body stiffened.  

“What the hell, Changbin?” Felix’s voice came out sharper than intended, snapping everyone’s attention to him. His jaw tightened, and his eyes darted from the mistletoe to Changbin’s sheepish grin.  

“It’s just a bit of fun,” Changbin replied, trying to keep it light. “Tradition, you know?”  

“Yeah, hilarious,” Felix said coldly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He avoided looking at you entirely, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.  

Your stomach sank at his reaction. Does the thought of kissing me disgust him that much? you wondered, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. Clearing your throat, you shifted slightly away from him, your heart sinking as your insecurities bubbled to the surface.  

Sensing the tension, Minho quickly stepped in. “Alright, alright, let’s get back to the movie, yeah? Changbin, retire your cupid stick.”  

The awkwardness lingered for the rest of the night, though no one dared to mention the mistletoe again. By the time the movie ended, you and Felix left without so much as a word to each other, the comfortable closeness from earlier now replaced with a noticeable distance.  

As you walked home in opposite directions, the silence between you hung heavy in the air, leaving you both with thoughts you couldn’t bring yourselves to say aloud.  

December 6th:

Minho’s invitation to dinner—just you, Felix, and Jisung—felt like the perfect excuse to shake off the awkwardness lingering from the group’s last gathering. Felix had eagerly agreed, and you didn’t hesitate either. Spending time with him in a smaller, more relaxed setting was always easy. Plus, Minho’s cooking was a draw on its own.  

As you stepped into Minho’s apartment, the warmth and delicious aroma of home-cooked food enveloped you immediately. “Welcome to Minho’s Michelin-star kitchen,” he announced proudly, ushering you inside.  

Jisung, sprawled lazily on the couch, smirked. “Minho’s been on a mission to impress all day. He even cleaned the stove. You better be prepared to cry tears of joy.”  

“Please,” Minho shot back. “You’ll be too busy shoving food into your mouth to cry.”  

Laughing, you made your way to the small dining table set beautifully for four. You slid into your seat beside Felix while Minho and Jisung sat across from you. The atmosphere was cozy, made warmer by the soft yellow light spilling from the lamp above the table.  

The conversation flowed easily as you started eating, a mix of light teasing and genuine updates. Minho, always perceptive, grinned as he turned his attention to you. “So, Y/n, heard you totally destroyed that exam you were stressing over? What’s your secret? Is it some kind of illegal genius potion? Do I need to call someone?”  

You laughed, shaking your head. “No genius potion, just sheer panic, too much coffee, and maybe a sprinkle of luck.” You reached for the salt shaker, but your movement froze as your gaze drifted upward. Dangling from the lamp above the table, hanging innocently over you and Felix, was a sprig of mistletoe.  

Your cheeks instantly heated. Minho and Jisung exchanged amused glances, poorly concealing their smirks as they watched you both. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Felix’s grip tighten slightly on his fork, his gaze firmly planted on his plate. He must have noticed it earlier, but he hadn’t said a word. Of course he hadn’t.  

You cleared your throat, breaking the moment, and continued your original task of grabbing the salt, doing your best to ignore the festive little sprig taunting you from above. Felix didn’t look up once, seemingly invested in rearranging the food on his plate.  

For the rest of the meal, your interactions with Felix felt careful and muted, though you couldn’t help sneaking a few glances his way. Whenever Minho wasn’t looking, you narrowed your eyes at him, your silent death glare saying all the things you couldn’t say out loud. But if he noticed your glare—and he absolutely did—he didn’t seem fazed, calmly serving himself another helping of food and chatting with Jisung about the latest drama in their group of friends.  

By the time dinner ended, the mistletoe still hung over you like an unanswered question, but neither of you dared to acknowledge it. You and Felix thanked Minho for the food and began your walk home in the crisp December night air.  

The silence at first was comfortable, your shoes crunching softly against the pavement. It didn’t take long before Felix cracked a joke about Jisung’s overly dramatic reaction to Minho’s slightly burnt bread rolls, and soon your laughter echoed easily down the quiet street.  

Amidst your conversation, Felix slipped his hand into yours. It wasn’t unusual for you two to hold hands—it was something you’d done before—but tonight it felt different. Maybe it was the warmth of the moment, or maybe it was the quiet intimacy of walking side by side under the twinkling streetlights. Whatever it was, you couldn’t help but notice how natural it felt, as though his hand belonged there.  

Felix glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, his soft smile catching the faint glow of the streetlights. “You know,” he began, his voice casual but slightly hesitant, “this kind of feels like… a nice tradition.”  

You tilted your head, squeezing his hand lightly. “What does?”  

“This,” he said, his gaze flicking briefly to your joined hands before he quickly added with a nervous laugh, “You know… just as friends. It’s nice, right? No weird mistletoe stuff this time.”  

Your laugh was light, but something tightened in your chest at his words. “Yeah,” you said softly, glancing ahead. “No surprises hanging over our heads.”  

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either. Felix’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, as if he was afraid you’d pull away, but you didn’t. You kept walking side by side, your steps naturally syncing with each other like they always did.  

His words lingered in your mind, though, the way he so quickly clarified the moment as just friendly. Did he think you might have assumed something else? Had you been assuming something else? The thought stirred uneasily in your chest, but you shook it off, blaming it on the holiday awkwardness that had been following you both since the start of December.  

Beside you, Felix wasn’t any calmer. His heart raced, and he berated himself silently. ‘Why did I say that? Now it’s weird. What if she thinks I’m overthinking? What if she wasn’t thinking about it, but now she is?’ His thoughts swirled in an endless loop of self-doubt, but even amidst the chaos in his mind, he felt the warmth of your hand in his and refused to let go.  

The walk continued, the quiet punctuated by shared smiles and lighthearted comments, both of you silently agreeing not to think too much about the moment. For now, it was enough.  

Unbeknownst to you, Minho and Jisung stood by their apartment window, watching as your figures grew smaller in the distance. “They’re hopeless,” Jisung said with a laugh, shaking his head.  

“Yeah,” Minho agreed, smiling fondly. “But this time, I think they’re starting to get it.”  

December 12th:

Visits to the dance studio where Minho, Hyunjin, and Felix practiced had become a regular part of your routine. You enjoyed seeing the trio perfect their routines and loved bringing them food and drinks as a small gesture of support. Tonight, you decided to surprise them, knowing how late their rehearsals often ran. The thumping bass and sharp rhythm of the music greeted you as you entered the studio, the trio moving in perfect sync with the beat. The energy in the room was magnetic, and you couldn’t help but admire the sheer dedication in each step. For a moment, you stood in the doorway, watching them in awe, before they noticed you.  

Minho spotted you first, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Perfect timing, Y/n! We’re starving,” he announced, cutting the music off as the others collapsed onto the floor in mock exhaustion. Hyunjin dramatically wiped his brow, flopping onto his back. “You’re basically a lifesaver at this point,” he joked, while Felix walked over to you with a shy smile, murmuring a soft “Thanks for coming.”  

You sat down with them on the studio floor, unpacking the food and drinks. The conversation flowed easily, filled with playful teasing and updates about your days. Felix, ever the enthusiastic eater, dove into his food with gusto, but it didn’t take long for disaster to strike. “You’ve got sauce on your face, Felix,” you said, stifling a laugh as you reached for a napkin. Without hesitation, you leaned in to wipe it off.  

But just as your hand neared his face, Hyunjin leaned over you with an outstretched arm, dangling a sprig of mistletoe above your head. “Oops, look at that,” he said with a mischievous grin. Your hand froze midair, your eyes locking on the mistletoe first, then darting to Felix. His eyes were wide, his cheeks already dusted with pink. The moment stretched out awkwardly, your hand only inches from his face, until the reality of the situation hit you like a jolt. You recoiled sharply, your heart racing. “I—I should go,” you stammered, grabbing your bag and standing up so quickly it almost knocked over a drink. “Lots to do tonight, sorry!” Before anyone could say a word, you rushed out of the studio, the door swinging shut behind you.  

The silence left behind was deafening. Felix sat frozen, his hand hovering where yours had been moments before, staring at the door you’d disappeared through. His brow furrowed as a mix of frustration and regret crossed his face. “Hyunjin,” he said slowly, his tone sharp, “what the hell was that? The mistletoe again?”  

Hyunjin blinked, startled by Felix’s tone. “I just thought it’d be funny,” he said defensively, holding the mistletoe up like a white flag. But when Felix’s glare didn’t falter, Hyunjin sighed and dropped the sprig onto the floor. “Look, if you hadn’t reacted so… harshly the first time, maybe Y/n wouldn’t be so jumpy now. I mean, do you even know how much she likes you?”  

Felix’s jaw tightened. “What?” he asked, his voice lower now, but Hyunjin just shook his head, standing up to grab a drink. “Figure it out, man. We’re just trying to help, but it’s like you’re both running away every time something happens.”  

Felix didn’t respond. He stared at the mistletoe on the floor, Hyunjin’s words echoing in his head. If you hadn’t reacted so harshly the first time… maybe Y/n wouldn’t be so jumpy now. Was that true? Had he set this whole thing in motion? He thought back to the first mistletoe incident at Changbin’s—a moment he’d shut down immediately because the idea of forcing you into something like that felt wrong. He didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable or pressured, not when he thought you might find it absolutely weird and deem him a creep or something. But now… was it his reaction that had made things worse? Was he the one creating this distance?  

His chest tightened. He’d thought he was protecting you—protecting your friendship—but maybe he’d only made things more awkward. And now you were running out of rooms because of him. The studio fell quiet again, save for the faint sound of Minho munching on chips. After a long silence, Minho glanced up, leaning forward slightly. “Felix, don’t overthink it,” he said gently, his voice less teasing than usual. “You two always bounce back. Just… maybe next time, don’t run away from the moment, yeah?”  

Felix nodded slowly, Minho’s words sinking in, but he still couldn’t shake the weight in his chest. As rehearsal resumed, he danced on autopilot, his movements mechanical as his mind replayed the night’s events. By the time the music stopped again, one thought was firmly planted in his mind: I can’t let this keep happening. I’ve got to figure out how to make things right with her.  

December 16th:

It had been a few days since the series of awkward holiday encounters—movie night, the dinner at Minho’s, and the fiasco at the dance studio. You and Felix had fallen back into your usual rhythm, or at least, you were trying to. The moments of closeness still felt natural, but there was a tension beneath the surface, a hesitance that hadn’t been there before. You chalked it up to everything that had happened, telling yourself that things would smooth out eventually. 

The two of you were standing by your locker that morning, talking like usual, and for once, it felt normal again. Felix leaned casually against the locker next to yours, his freckled cheeks still slightly pink from the cold outside. 

“I’m calling it now—Chan’s going to make us rewrite our part of the group project by the end of the week,” Felix said with a smirk. “He’s going to find some tiny typo and have an existential crisis about it.” 

You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed a book from your locker. “He’s probably already composing the email. I give him until tomorrow before we get hit with, ‘Just a few more adjustments.’” 

Felix laughed along with you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Moments like this were your favorite—easy, light, like nothing had changed. The awkwardness from the last few days felt far away, almost forgotten. Almost. 

But then Jisung appeared. 

“Wow, if it isn’t my favorite dynamic duo!” he called out, his voice loud enough to draw a few glances from passing students. You turned your head just as he stopped in front of you, his usual mischievous grin plastered across his face. 

“Jisung…” you began cautiously, narrowing your eyes at him. “What are you doing?” 

Instead of answering, he gave you and Felix a mockingly sweet look, then reached up and held something over your heads. Your stomach sank the moment you realized what he was doing. 

Felix noticed immediately too. His laughter faded, and for a split second, he looked up before his eyes flicked to you. But instead of pulling away or frowning like he had the first time, he hesitated, his lips parting slightly as if he was about to say something. His posture softened, his hand twitching at his side as though he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he should. “Y/n, it’s not a big deal,” he said, his voice quiet and careful. 

But you didn’t hear the gentleness in his words. The memory of his sharp reaction the first time flashed in your mind like a warning sign. You panicked, your body stiffening as a heat rose to your face. “Jisung!” you exclaimed, your voice harsher than you intended as you reached out to push him aside. 

He stumbled back with a yelp, clutching his chest dramatically. “Whoa, okay! No need to shove!” he said, though his tone was still playful. 

“I’m not doing this right now,” you muttered, hastily grabbing your bag. Your eyes didn’t meet Felix’s, even as you felt his gaze lingering on you. “I’ve got to get to class.” 

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving Felix and Jisung standing there in the middle of the hallway. 

The silence between them was heavy for a moment, until Jisung let out a low whistle. “Well, that didn’t go as planned,” he muttered, looking at Felix. 

Felix was still staring down the hall, his expression hard to read. His arms hung at his sides, his shoulders tense. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but laced with frustration. “Why do you keep doing that, Jisung?” 

Jisung blinked. “Doing what?” 

Felix turned to him, his jaw tight. “This. Pushing her like that. It’s not helping.” 

Jisung tilted his head, holding his hands up defensively. “Whoa, relax, man. I thought you two were back to normal. You were laughing and talking like nothing was wrong—I figured maybe this time, it wouldn’t be a big deal.” 

Felix ran a hand through his hair, letting out a sigh. “Well, it is a big deal. She’s already uncomfortable with everything that’s happened, and now she’s just…” He trailed off, his voice growing softer. “She probably thinks I don’t want this. That I don’t want her.” 

Jisung frowned, his usual playful expression replaced by something more serious. “You don’t think she knows how you feel?” 

Felix let out a short, humorless laugh. “How could she? The first time this happened, I acted like the whole idea was some big joke. She probably thinks the idea of… of anything between us is disgusting to me.” He leaned back against the lockers, his gaze falling to the floor. “But it’s not. It’s the opposite. I just didn’t want her to feel pressured into anything. I thought I was doing the right thing.” 

Jisung studied him for a moment, then let out a sigh. “Look, man, maybe it’s time to stop trying to protect her from something she doesn’t need protecting from. I mean, she’s clearly as caught up in her head as you are. Maybe instead of freaking out, you could, I don’t know, actually say something next time?” 

Felix looked up at him, frowning. “Say what?” 

Jisung smirked faintly, patting Felix on the shoulder. “Figure it out. Just… do something before she sprints away again. You’re both miserable, and it’s kind of painful to watch.” 

And with that, Jisung walked off, leaving Felix standing alone in the hallway. Felix let out another sigh, leaning his head back against the lockers. 

Maybe Jisung’s right, he thought, the idea twisting in his chest. She probably thinks I don’t want her. But what if she… what if she doesn’t want me either? 

The thought made his stomach churn, but as he stood there, staring down the hallway where you’d disappeared, he resolved to himself that next time—if there was a next time—he wouldn’t let things end like this. 

December 20th:

The soft hum of Christmas music filled the cozy café where you worked, the glow of fairy lights strung along the walls casting a warm, festive ambiance. The evening shift had been slow, with only the occasional customer trickling in, leaving you and Jeongin plenty of time to chat and clean. When the bells above the door jingled, you glanced up, immediately spotting Felix stepping in from the cold. A puff of white breath escaped his lips as he unwrapped the scarf from his neck, his cheeks and nose flushed pink from the chilly December air. He looked tired but happy, and his face lit up when he saw you behind the counter. 

“Felix!” you called out, leaning slightly over the counter to greet him. “Done with your last exam?” 

He grinned as he approached, his hair falling into his eyes. “Finally. I think my brain is fried, but at least I’m free now.” He leaned an elbow on the counter, his usual casual charm impossible to miss. “I needed a victory coffee, and I figured my favorite barista would hook me up.” 

You snorted, grabbing a cup and heading toward the espresso machine. “Victory coffee, huh? Is that what we’re calling it? Be honest—did you crush it or barely survive?” 

“Crushed it,” he replied quickly, then laughed. “Okay, fine. Maybe there was a little panic halfway through the essay. But come on, you try remembering six economic theories when you’re running on two hours of sleep.” 

You rolled your eyes but smiled as you started making his coffee. “Sounds like someone should’ve had one more latte before heading in. Caffeine solves everything, you know.” 

“Ah, yes, the secret to success: caffeine addiction,” he teased, resting both elbows on the counter now as he watched you work. Jeongin, wiping down tables nearby, snorted loud enough to make Felix glance his way. 

“She doesn’t give just anyone free coffee, you know,” Jeongin quipped. “You must be special.” 

Felix smirked, his gaze flickering to yours. “Guess I’m her favorite.” 

You felt your cheeks flush but kept your focus on the coffee machine, pretending his words hadn’t made your heart skip. “Careful, sunshine boy, or I’ll start charging you double.” 

Jeongin grinned knowingly but didn’t push it, disappearing into the back as you handed Felix his coffee. He took a sip, sighing dramatically as though it were the best thing he’d ever tasted. “Perfect, as always.” 

You leaned forward on the counter, resting your chin in your hand as you laughed. “I’ll take that as a five-star Yelp review.” 

“You’d get six stars if you threw in a cookie,” he joked, and just like that, the conversation flowed effortlessly. It didn’t matter how awkward things had been between you recently—when it was just the two of you, everything else seemed to melt away. Felix’s freckled cheeks were still pink from the cold, and the warmth in his eyes as he smiled at you made your stomach flip, though you tried to ignore it. 

The café was quiet, the snow falling softly outside making the whole world feel muffled and still. Felix leaned closer over the counter, his chin propped on his hand now, mirroring your posture as you teased him about his exam. He was laughing again, the sound low and sweet, and you were so caught up in the moment that you didn’t notice how close you’d both leaned toward each other. The space between you was practically nonexistent, and your heart was thudding in your chest, though you weren’t sure why. 

But Felix did notice. Just as his gaze flickered to your lips, a movement caught the corner of his eye. He stilled, his laughter fading as his focus shifted. There, by the pastry case, was Jeongin. He was leaning casually against the counter, a smug grin plastered across his face as he held something above your heads. 

Felix’s stomach twisted when he realized what it was: a sprig of mistletoe, dangling lazily from Jeongin’s hand. His initial instinct was to groan or roll his eyes, to glare at Jeongin for meddling again. But then his gaze returned to you. You were still smiling, your eyes shining as you waited for him to say something, completely unaware of Jeongin’s antics. 

Felix hesitated. He knew how you felt about the mistletoe by now—how every prank this month had left you retreating, flustered and unsure. But something about the way you were looking at him right now, so close and unguarded, made him want to push past the awkwardness and take the chance. Maybe this was his moment to show you how he really felt. 

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that sent a shiver down your spine. “Can I tell you something?” 

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued, though you tried to keep your tone light. “You’re not about to say something cheesy, are you?” 

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine, and his gaze softened as he leaned in slightly. “Maybe. But you make it kinda hard not to.” 

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back some teasing remark, but before you could, Felix closed the space between you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek. The warmth of his lips spread across your skin, catching you so off guard that you froze. For a moment, everything seemed to stand still, the café quiet except for the soft hum of holiday music. But just as your heart started to flutter, your eyes flicked upward—and you saw it. 

There, held high above your heads, was Jeongin’s hand. He was leaning against the counter, the branch in his grip swaying slightly, his grin practically splitting his face in two. 

The giddy warmth from Felix’s kiss vanished, replaced by a sinking feeling in your chest. Of course. Of course Jeongin had been watching, meddling, dangling his stupid branch like some kind of cupid. You stepped back from Felix slightly, your hand brushing your cheek where his lips had been moments before, and let out a nervous laugh. 

“Wow, smooth, Felix,” you said lightly, though your voice felt hollow even to your own ears. You avoided his gaze, your chest tightening with doubt. He’d kissed you, sure, but was it because he wanted to—or because Jeongin had been standing there, making it impossible not to? The thought twisted painfully in your stomach, and you turned your attention to Jeongin, your expression hardening. “And you! Don’t you have anything better to do than play cupid?” 

Jeongin grinned shamelessly, lowering the branch. “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ as he straightened up. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

You rolled your eyes and busied yourself behind the counter, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. You could feel Felix’s gaze on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it. The moment had been so sweet, so perfect, but now it just felt like a game—like all the other forced encounters this month. The thought of it being anything other than real made your chest ache. 

Felix stood there, his own chest tightening as he watched you. He hadn’t missed the way your expression changed the second you noticed Jeongin, how you’d pulled away like the kiss had meant nothing. His grip on his coffee cup tightened, frustration and regret bubbling inside him. He’d kissed you because he wanted to, but now it felt like everything had been ruined by that stupid sprig of greenery. 

Later, as Jeongin wiped down a table nearby, Felix caught his eye. “Really?” Felix said, his voice low as he gestured toward the branch now lying on the counter. “You couldn’t help yourself?” 

Jeongin smirked, completely unbothered. “You two were this close. I just gave you a little push.” 

Felix sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She probably thinks I only kissed her because of you.” 

“Well,” Jeongin said, raising an eyebrow, “did you?” 

Felix glared at him, his voice soft but firm. “No. I kissed her because I wanted to.” 

Jeongin tilted his head, his smirk softening into something almost understanding. “Then maybe next time, let her know that. Don’t let me or some stupid branch do it for you.” 

Felix stayed quiet, his eyes flicking toward the counter where you stood, your back still turned to him. Jeongin’s words echoed in his head as he finished his coffee, determination slowly building in his chest. If there was going to be a next time, he wouldn’t leave any room for doubt. Not this time.

December 22nd:

The Christmas party was in full swing, and Chan’s apartment buzzed with the energy of a group finally free from the weight of exams. The music pulsed softly in the background—a mix of festive classics and whatever Jisung had decided to throw into the playlist for chaos. Colored lights blinked unevenly from every corner, their soft glow bathing the room in warmth, while an unsteady Christmas tree leaned dramatically in the corner, its precarious decorations the result of Minho’s refusal to let anyone touch “his masterpiece.” The air was thick with the scent of mulled wine, spiked hot chocolate, and cinnamon candles that Minho had insisted were “mandatory for the aesthetic.” Empty bottles and half-eaten snacks littered the table, and Santa hats had somehow found their way onto everyone’s heads, whether willingly or not. 

In the kitchen, you leaned against the counter, cradling a drink that had gone lukewarm in your hand. Minho stood opposite you, arms crossed and a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he watched you with laser focus. The noise from the living room spilled faintly into the space—Jeongin’s laughter cutting through Chan’s groan of defeat, the clinking of glasses, and Jisung’s exaggerated rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock.” 

Minho raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as he studied you. “Alright, what’s going on?” 

You blinked, startled. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Minho said, gesturing toward the door with his glass, “that you’ve been glancing at Felix every five minutes like you’re in a cheesy holiday rom-com, and you’ve barely said three words to him all night. Spill.” 

You groaned, setting your drink down on the counter with a little too much force. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, though even you didn’t believe it. “That’s the problem.” 

Minho’s smirk softened, and he leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze not letting you escape. “You know you can talk to me, right? I’m like a free therapist. Minus the therapy license. And the emotional sensitivity.” 

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “It’s just… complicated,” you said, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. “This whole mistletoe thing—it’s made everything so weird. And now I feel like I don’t even know where I stand with him. What if all those moments didn’t mean anything? What if he only kissed me at the café because Jeongin was standing there waiting for him to do it?” 

Minho let out a long, exasperated sigh, setting his glass down with a dramatic flourish. “Y/n, listen to me. Felix isn’t the kind of guy who does something just because someone else expects him to. If he kissed you, it’s because he wanted to. End of story. Trust me, I’ve known him for years.” 

You frowned, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “But what if I’m wrong? What if I say something, and it ruins everything?” 

Minho gave you a rare, sincere look, his tone softening. “Then at least you’ll know. But, Y/n, come on. The guy looks at you like you hung the stars. You’ve seen it, right? He’s just as caught up in this as you are. But if you don’t talk to him, you’re both gonna keep circling each other forever.” 

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. “You’re really annoying, you know that?” you muttered, picking up your glass again. 

Minho grinned, raising his own glass in a mock toast. “And yet, I’m always right.” 

Across the room, Felix was perched on the edge of the couch, swirling his drink absently as he stared out the window. The faint glow of the city lights reflected in his dark eyes, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He barely noticed the snow falling in lazy flurries, his mind too busy replaying every moment from the past month—the awkwardness, the misunderstandings, and most of all, the way you’d pulled away at the café after Jeongin’s mistletoe stunt. He kept asking himself the same question: Had he ruined it? Had his hesitation made you think he didn’t care? 

Hyunjin plopped down beside him, dragging him back to the present with an exaggerated sigh. “Alright, sunshine boy, what’s your deal?” 

Felix blinked, startled. “What?” 

“You’ve been sulking in the corner all night,” Hyunjin said, poking him in the ribs with a candy cane. “Which, like, fine, maybe it’s your broody winter aesthetic or whatever, but it’s starting to get depressing. What’s going on?” 

Felix let out a soft groan, running a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing.” 

“Oh, it’s definitely not nothing,” Seungmin interjected from across the room, where he was perched on the armrest of the couch. “Even Changbin noticed, and he’s been halfway through that punch bowl for the last hour.” 

Changbin, who was indeed holding another cup of punch, nodded sagely. “Yeah, man. You’ve been staring at Y/n like she’s the last piece of cake at the bakery.” 

Felix groaned again, burying his face in his hands. “I’m not staring.” 

Hyunjin snorted. “Right. Sure. You’re just ‘coincidentally’ looking in her direction every thirty seconds.” 

Felix dropped his hands, shooting them a glare. “I don’t know, okay? The whole mistletoe thing has been a mess, and I feel like every time I try to fix it, I just make things worse. She probably thinks I only kissed her at the café because Jeongin was watching.” 

Hyunjin tilted his head, studying Felix’s slumped posture. “Or—and hear me out—maybe she’s just as scared as you are. Look, Felix, if you want her to know how you feel, you’re gonna have to stop tiptoeing around it. None of this ‘reading between the lines’ crap. Just tell her.” 

Felix’s gaze flicked toward the kitchen, where he could just make out the edge of your figure as you leaned against the counter, talking to Minho. His chest tightened. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You’re right.” 

Hyunjin grinned, clapping him on the back. “Of course I am.” 

The Christmas party had settled into a quieter rhythm, the earlier chaos giving way to a warm buzz of chatter and laughter. Chan’s apartment still brimmed with festive energy—colored lights blinked unevenly from the walls, and the half-decorated tree leaned at an almost comical angle, as though too tired to stand upright after hosting a steady stream of Santa hats and selfies. The scent of mulled wine, cinnamon candles, and something suspiciously burnt wafted through the air, mingling with the faint sounds of Christmas music pulsing from Jisung’s chaotic playlist. 

You needed air. The heat of the apartment and the weight of your swirling thoughts had become too much, so you’d slipped out onto the balcony unnoticed. The cold December breeze bit at your skin, sharp and refreshing, as you leaned against the railing and stared out at the snow-dusted city below. The streetlights illuminated the falling snow like glitter, and for a moment, you let the quiet settle over you, a sharp contrast to the hum of energy inside. 

Your mind, however, refused to settle. It was caught in a loop, replaying every mistletoe encounter from the past month—the awkward laughter, the stolen glances, the kiss at the café. No matter how hard you tried to push it away, one thought kept returning: Did any of it really mean something? Or had Felix simply gone along with it because he felt like he had to? 

The sliding door opened behind you, and you glanced over your shoulder, startled. Felix stepped out, his scarf loosely draped around his neck, and the faint glow from the apartment lit up his freckles like constellations. His cheeks were pink, whether from the cold or the warmth of the party, you weren’t sure. He hesitated for a moment, looking at you like he wasn’t entirely sure he was welcome, before closing the door behind him and stepping closer. 

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice carrying over the breeze. 

“Hey,” you replied, your breath visible in the cold as you turned back to the view. 

For a few moments, neither of you said anything, the silence stretching between you like the snowfall. Felix shifted beside you, leaning on the railing, close enough that his elbow almost brushed yours. You could feel his presence without looking at him, and the weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air. 

“Can we talk?” he asked finally, his voice hesitant but steady. 

You nodded, your pulse quickening. “Yeah. We probably should.” 

Felix let out a slow breath, his hands gripping the railing as he looked out at the city. “This whole month has been… a lot,” he started, his voice low. “The mistletoe, the teasing, all of it—it made everything feel so much more complicated than it needed to be. And I know I didn’t exactly handle it well.” He paused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “The night at Changbin’s… when I reacted the way I did—it wasn’t because I didn’t want to kiss you.” 

You turned to look at him, your chest tightening. “Then why?” 

Felix hesitated, his brows furrowing as he stared down at his hands. “Because I didn’t want you to feel pressured. I didn’t want you to think I was only doing it because they were watching. I didn’t want it to feel like some stupid joke.” His voice softened, and he finally looked up to meet your gaze. “I wanted it to be real. And I didn’t want to ruin anything between us by making it weird.” 

Your breath caught, and you felt the words spilling out before you could stop them. “And I didn’t want you to kiss me because of them either,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because of some stupid branch, or a game, or anything else.” 

Felix’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. “Y/n,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “that’s the only reason I’ve ever wanted to kiss you.” 

The rawness in his tone sent a shiver down your spine, and your heart felt like it might burst. The tension between you was electric, the cold air forgotten as his gaze held yours, unflinching and unguarded. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Felix spotted something on the small table beside you. 

He let out a soft laugh, breaking the moment as he reached for it. In his hand was a familiar sprig of greenery—another mistletoe branch, as though the universe itself had been conspiring against you all month. Felix raised it above your heads, a playful smile tugging at his lips despite the nervous edge in his eyes. 

“Well,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement, “it wouldn’t be Christmas without one of these, right?” 

You stared at the mistletoe for a moment, your emotions a tangled mess of warmth, frustration, and something close to defiance. Then, without a word, you grabbed the branch from his hand, stepped back, and threw it over the railing. The sprig disappeared into the night, swallowed by the snow below. 

“To hell with that,” you said, your voice steady but breathless. 

Before Felix could react, you closed the distance between you, your hands cupping his face as you leaned in and kissed him. His lips were warm despite the cold, soft and tentative for half a second before he responded, his hands gently settling on your waist like he was afraid you might disappear. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, like the two of you were pouring every unsaid word, every missed moment, into it. The rest of the world faded away—there was no snow, no cold, no noise from the party inside. There was only him. 

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested against each other, your breaths mingling in the frosty air. Felix’s eyes fluttered open, and his freckled cheeks were flushed, his lips tugging into a soft, disbelieving smile. 

“Wow,” he said, his voice low and full of awe. “That was definitely all you.” 

You laughed, your hands still resting against his cheeks. “Yeah, it was.” 

The tender moment was shattered by a loud thump against the glass door. Both of you whipped around to see the boys pressed up against the balcony window—Hyunjin, Jisung, Jeongin, Seungmin, Changbin, Chan, and Minho, all grinning like they’d just won the lottery. Minho smirked as he exchanged a smug high-five with Chan, while Jisung mimed wiping a fake tear from his cheek. 

Felix groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as his ears burned red. “They’re the worst.” 

You couldn’t stop laughing, wrapping your arms around him as you leaned your cheek against his hair. “Yeah,” you said, smiling as the snow continued to fall softly around you. “But maybe we owe them for this one.” 

[carisc4pshaw]

Spencer’s Double Shift

Dad!Spencer finishes a case only to find out he can’t go home to his wife (reader) and daughter as they have another case in New York. (fluff)

word count: 2.5k

tags: dad!spencer, mom/fem!reader, parents, parenting, New York, behavioural analysis unit, date night, early birthday dinner, halloween mention, fbi, plane ride, first plane ride, subtle sex mention, fluff, marriage, married with kid, work, fear of flying, comforting.

no warnings

notes: I don’t really like the title of this but oh well, this is the first time I’ve written with the reader so its not amazing sorry. Hope you enjoy!

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Spencer had been away for three days working on a difficult case but there wasn’t a day he hadn’t called you before starting and ending his day. He told you he had been calling because he missed you but you know it’s really because he missed your perfect daughter.

You and Spencer had the most gorgeous daughter, Delilah Reid, she’s four years old and a total daddy’s girl, she asks you multiple times a day if she can call when Spencer is away working on a case and when you explain to her why she can’t call it makes her cry but she stops when you remind her that her daddy saves lots of people. He is her hero.

Spencer had texted you a few hours ago to let you know he was now boarding the plane to come home as well as telling you he missed both you and Delilah and couldn’t wait to kiss you so when you saw his call coming through on your phone you weren’t surprised.

“Hi Spence,” You said into the phone as you went around the house putting Delilah’s toys away, “Good flight?”

“Hi baby, yeah good flight but I have some bad news,” Spencer replied running his hand through his fluffy curls.

“You have to stay late and do reports?” You groaned into the phone.

“Worse, Hotch got another call on the flight, bad case in New York, we leave in 2 hours. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay honey, it’s not your fault,” You were glad you weren’t FaceTiming right now because the massive frown on your face would make him feel worse and he didn’t deserve that.

“Can I be the worst husband ever right now and ask a favour of you?” Spencer asked.

“You’re hardly the worst husband. Shoot.”

“Could you bring me some clean clothes to swap over in my overnight bag and please bring Delilah I miss her so much I feel like I’m missing everything.”

“I can do that of course, I want to see you I miss you. You aren’t missing much with Delilah except a very messy playroom and a few princess stories at night.”

“Not the princess stories they are my favourite.”

You laugh, “Alright Spence, I’ll bring one for you to read to her before you leave.”

“Deal. Don’t be too long I miss you,” You can practically see Spencer’s pout just by hearing his tone.

“You need to let me hang up then.”

“Fine, be quick, I love you and be safe,” he blew a kiss into the phone making your heart flutter.

“I love you too, extra safe I promise,” You said before hanging up and getting his things together for him.

You knocked on the door of your daughter’s bedroom lightly to see if she was still napping, after getting no sleepy response from her you opened the door quietly climbing into the bed beside her as much as you could with the little space.

“Baby,” You stroke one of the brunette strands of her hair from her face.

“Mommy? Is Daddy home?” She mumbled sleepily to you.

“No baby, we are going to visit Daddy at work. Do you want to pick a book for him to read to you?” You played with the ends of her wavy hair.

“Really? I love Daddy’s work! Yeah, I pick a book,” she says trying to scramble out the duvet.

“Daddy’s got more people to help though baby so we can’t stay too long, just until he has to leave.”

Delilah pouts, “But mommy I miss Daddy he’s been away like a million days.”

You laugh, “I know baby, he’s sorry and so am I but we can do some fun things.”

“He’ll be back for Halloween?”

“Yes he will be back before Halloween sweetie,” You kissed her head, “Get ready and we will leave.”

“Can I stay in my fluffy pyjamas? Please,” Delilah dragged out the ‘e’ at the end of please.

“If you want to,” You smiled at your daughter picking her up to help her off the bed so she could pick a book to take.

——————

You helped Delilah get out of the car and passed her the princess book before swinging Spencer’s bag onto your shoulder and carrying Delilah at the same time.

You signed in at reception, Spencer had called to tell them you were dropping by, usually, they don’t let people come in without an employee badge but you had become friends with the receptionist after the many times you had dropped by to see Spencer in the times you were dating and while you had been married.

Once you were in the elevator you put Delilah down, she couldn’t get lost going from the elevator to the bullpen since they were opposite each other and she had been there enough times to know the way.

When the doors opened you spotted Spencer waiting on the other side of the open glass door. He knew his daughter would run out once she saw him and that’s exactly what she did. The small girl let go of your hand and ran towards her Dad the book still in her hand.

“Daddy!” She squeaked, you walking not far behind watching them as they collided in a hug.

“Hi Princess,” Spencer picked her up and spun her around. Hotch, Emily and JJ were watching from across the room smiling. Emily could see how much happier Spencer was as soon as he was talking to you or back with both you and your daughter.

“You should let him bring them to New York with us and maybe give him a day off while we are there,” Emily whispered to Hotch.

“I’ll speak to him about it,” Hotch spoke while nodding.

“I missed you, Daddy, don’t go, why do you keep leaving me and Mommy?” Delilah pouted with tears in her eyes.

Spencer held Delilah’s hair out of her face placing kisses over her face, “I’m sorry baby, I don’t want to leave you.”

You sighed seeing the tears almost spilling from Delilah’s eyes, “Honey I told you Daddy saves people.”

“But what if I need him,” Delilah started crying both your and Spencer’s hearts breaking as well as the others watching.

“Reid,” Hotch called Spencer signalling for him to come over.

Spencer tried to pass Delilah over to you but the girl cried harder refusing to let go of him.

“You can all come,” Hotch said walking up the stairs towards the office.

Once you entered with your husband and daughter who had stopped crying Hotch smiled, “Emily made a point to me that you haven’t been at your best recently being apart from your wife and daughter and proposed I talk to you about bringing them to New York with us, that way we can call you when we need but you can also do some exploring and be with your family,” Hotch said.

“Really? That would be great!” Spencer said.

“That really would be, thank you, Aaron,” You said.

“We will pick you up in an hour on the way to the jet.”

“The only thing is Delilah has never flown before, I don’t want her to get upset and distract you from your case,” You added.

“She’s no bother.”

“I’m a big girl I will be fine I going to eat a big pizza,” Delilah squealed, “Let me go Daddy I need to tell Auntie Emily and Auntie JJ,” she gasped, “Can we visit Nana and Auntie Elle and her girlfriend and her kitten too!”

“Slow down baby, we need to go home and get ready before we can do anything,” You crouched down to pull Delilah into a hug.

“Kay Kay, me and Daddy make plans on the plane!”

You all laughed before Spencer ruffled her hair with his hand, “Okay little princess.”

The three of you went back to your house to get ready, you already felt a little stressed about how little time you had to pack. Packing usually took you at least a day to make sure you had a list of everything you needed and you weren’t leaving anything behind.

Spencer stood behind you rubbing your shoulders, “I can tell you’re stressed.”

“Sorry, I just don’t know what to pack. What’s the weather going to be like? What are we going to do there? Fancy or casual dinners? I guess casual because Lilah is with us,” You rambled.

“We won’t be there more than four days, the weather is the right temperature for jeans and t-shirts, pack a jumper for the mornings, maybe take a coat in case it rains one day but nothing too thick,” he helps you out.

“Thank you, Baby,” You grab his face leaving a gentle peck on his lips before returning to your suitcase to finish your packing while Spencer went to help Delilah.

——————

You sat opposite Delilah and Spencer sat beside her on the private jet. The small brunette had her small hands on either side of the window watching the takeoff and the city becoming several long fluffy clouds.

“It’s pretty!” Delilah gasped.

“Yeah, it is isn’t it?” You replied.

“Daddy, do you want to see too?” Delilah asked him.

“I’ve seen it lots of times, you enjoy it,” He ran his hand over her hair before moving to sit next to you.

“Hi,” You move a little closer to him in the seat.

“Hi,” He takes your hand and laces your fingers together.

You rest your head on his shoulder your eyes fluttering closed for a second as he rubbed his thumb on the back of his hand.

“Are you okay?” He asked. You were sometimes a nervous flyer but you didn’t want to show it right now especially in front of your daughter for her first flight.

“I’m doing fine, this plane shakes less than a commercial aircraft,” You glanced up at him smiling.

“I didn’t get to give you a proper hello earlier,” Spencer leaned his head down connecting his lips with yours in a quick kiss that unfortunately didn’t go unnoticed by the young brunette girl.

“EW!” She shouted rather loudly, “You guys can’t kiss!”

“Why not? We love each other,” Spencer tells Delilah, “And you need to be a bit quieter baby. They are working,” He points to his team.

“It’s gross to kiss,” Delilah stuck her tongue out.

Spencer gave your lips one last quick peck before grinning at Delilah who was sitting with her arms folded and pouting.

Around halfway through the flight, the plane hit a small rough patch of turbulence making you panic slightly and Delilah started crying. Spencer wanted to comfort the both of you but you knew it was more important for him to look after your child and besides you always remembered the fact Spencer had told you about planes that they’re more likely to crash as you were taking off or as you are landing which made you feel a little bit better not by much but it was something.

You watched as Spencer moved Delilah onto his lap and rubbed her back trying to calm her down. When her breaths became more controlled he wiped the tears from her cheeks and placed a kiss on her nose whispering, ‘You’re okay baby I’ll always keep you safe,’ to her.

Seeing how he was with her always made your heart warm and melt in your chest, there really could be no better father for any child except maybe one that wasn’t in the FBI but you would never want anyone else as your husband or as Delilah’s father.

You left your seat to go to grab a coffee, Emily and JJ were standing by the coffee machine talking and quite obviously flirting. You were closer to JJ than you were to Emily but not for any reason other than JJ’s son Micheal and Delilah went to the same daycare.

“Hi,” You said squeezing around them to get a mug from the cupboard.

“Hi,” They replied at the same time before quickly turning their heads and smiling brightly at each other to acknowledge what they had just done.

You laughed, “Excuse me,” You directed at Emily who was standing by the coffee machine.

She moved to the side, “Is Delilah okay? We heard her crying, was it the turbulence?”

“Yeah she’s fine, she was just a little scared because she’s never experienced it before,” You answered with a small smile, “Spence calmed her down.”

“We saw, he’s an amazing dad. He was so good with Henry when he was younger too I’m so happy he has a kid of his own now,” JJ smiled.

Your smile grew hearing JJ say that. “He is an amazing dad,” You looked over at your husband, “He’s great. Spencer’s birthday is coming up and I really wanted to take him to dinner while we are in New York, Could you possibly watch Delilah tonight? It won’t be late because I know you will both have to be up early to start the case.”

“Oh yes! We’d love to look after her, she was so cute last time trying to read us her princess book,” Emily said.

“I might have to prep a few bits for the case but Em will be fine on her own with her she’s really good with the boys at home,” JJ said.

“Okay, thank you guys so much,” You took your coffee and returned to your seat.

——————

It was already 4:30 pm when the plane landed in New York and the hotel you were staying in was about 15 minutes away. Delilah had fallen asleep just before you went into the SUV, you were hoping she’d sleep until you got to the hotel so she’d be less irritable when you told her you and Spencer were going out for dinner.

You rested your head on Spencer’s shoulder, “I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?” Spencer raised his eyebrow in curiosity.

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” You ran your hand up and down his arm.

“Thank you, How come?” He had a big smile on his face.

“Early birthday dinner, Em and JJ are going to watch Delilah while we are out.”

“Do you think they can watch her a little longer after dinner too?” Spencer whispered into your ear.

Your cheeks clouded with blush and a little laugh left your mouth, “Stop that Spence.”

“I didn’t say anything wrong,” He said with a smug smile and a little smirk.

——————

You and Spencer walked into Carmine’s Italian restaurant hand in hand.

Once you were sat down at the table waiting for your food, he reached across the table and started drawing circles with his finger on top of your hand.

“Thank you for this,” He tucked your hair behind your ear with his other hand.

“Thank you for being you, you’re such a good Dad and husband Spence I don’t tell you enough. Happy early birthday,” You leaned across the table to kiss him.

“You tell me more than enough love but I don’t think I tell you enough that you’re an amazing Mom and wife I don’t what either of us would do without you.”

Once your food arrived you ate and made small talk together until going back to the hotel to collect your beautiful daughter from JJ and Emily.

[reidmania]

slow it down | s.reid

summary; when life feels like its moving too fast and you feel like you're falling behind, spencer is there to slow it down.

warnings; i kind of feel like this is occ.. fem reader, established relationships, feeling like your falling behind in life, overwhelmed, insecurity, comforting wise spencer, i lowkey feel like this is kinda cringe but IDK.. self reflection

an; um.. so i am so sorry for neglecting you guys lately.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, fingers tracing over a stack of old photos from years that somehow feel closer and farther away than they should. The soft morning light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room, but you can’t seem to feel it. It’s like you’re living in fast-forward, like everyone around you has figured out the secret to living, and you’re just scrambling to catch up. There’s a constant hum in the back of your mind, a quiet sense of urgency that keeps telling you, You’re falling behind.

And then there’s Spencer. Reliable, steady, intelligent Spencer, with his endless curiosity and his warm, steady gaze. Sometimes, you think he sees the world at a slower pace. He notices the way the trees change color in the fall, the way the clouds drift lazily across the sky, the way your breathing hitches when you’re overwhelmed. You’re not sure how he does it — how he lives in a world where time is patient, gentle even.

“Hey,” his voice breaks the quiet as he steps into the room, soft but firm, pulling you back to reality. “I noticed you didn’t sleep much last night.”

You give a small shrug, brushing the hair out of your face. “Just… thinking. That’s all.”

He sits beside you, close but not overwhelming, his presence grounding. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You’re not sure where to begin. There’s so much tangled up inside — the worry about where you’re going, the guilt of not doing enough, the fear that everyone else is moving forward while you’re stuck in place. It’s all too big, too heavy, and it clings to you like a second skin.

“Sometimes,” you say, staring down at your hands, “it feels like I’m watching everyone else live their lives at this… impossible speed. Like they’re running ahead, and I’m trying so hard to keep up, but I just… can’t.”

He watches you with that familiar look of quiet understanding, as though he’s absorbing every word. “I know it feels like that. But you’re doing more than you think, even if it doesn’t feel that way. Life isn’t a race, no matter what it seems like.”

You smile a little, but it’s strained. “Easy for you to say. You’re Dr. Spencer Reid. You’ve got three Ph.D’s.” It was unfair, you knew life wasn’t easy on him. He didn’t mind, he didn’t take offence at your insecurity.

His laugh is soft, a bit self-conscious. “It’s not always about how much you’ve done, you know. It’s about… what’s meaningful to you. And the world can feel fast because it’s busy and loud, but that doesn’t mean it’s moving faster than you can handle.”

You let his words sink in, wanting to believe them. He’s always been so good at that — seeing things in a way you can’t, finding meaning in moments you’d overlook. You think back to all those quiet mornings with him, sipping coffee while he reads, or the way he’ll point out little details in the most ordinary things. He lives with intention, like every second holds something worth noticing. “Teach me how to do that,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “How to… slow down, like you do.”

He shifts a little closer, his arm draping over your shoulders. “We can start now, if you’d like.”

“Here?” you ask, a little surprised.

“Why not?” He gives a small shrug, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your shoulder. “The world outside can wait a little. Right now, it’s just us.”

So, you close your eyes, focusing on the warmth of his hand, the even rhythm of his breathing beside you. He begins to talk, softly, almost to himself, about the small things that make up the moment — the softness of the sheets, the faint sound of birds outside, the warmth of the sunlight coming through the window. It’s strange, hearing him describe the world like this, like a piece of poetry instead of a rush of responsibilities. And slowly, something shifts within you. You’re not sure if it’s because of his voice or his hand on your shoulder, but the weight on your chest starts to ease.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I think we get caught up in thinking life has to be monumental, or it has to mean something big. But there’s value in the small moments too, even the ones where you feel like nothing is happening.”

You open your eyes and look at him. His gaze is soft, steady, like he’s known this all along but has been waiting for you to see it too. “You really believe that?”

“More than anything,” he nods, his hand slipping down to intertwine with yours. “And maybe if we slow down, even just a little, we can find that there’s more here than we thought.”

He suggests you both go for a walk. At first, you resist — it feels like there’s no time for that. But then you see the gentle insistence in his eyes, and you let yourself give in. Outside, the air is crisp, and the leaves are beginning to change, painting the trees in vibrant shades of red and gold. You wouldn’t have noticed it on your own, but Spencer points it out, marveling at the colors like it’s the first time he’s seen them.

The path winds through a quiet park, and he takes his time pointing out things you’d usually ignore: the sound of a squirrel rustling in the bushes, the faint smell of pine, the way the sunlight filters through the branches. You begin to feel your mind quiet, your worries slipping away as you take in each small moment.

“See?” he says, smiling as he catches you watching a butterfly flutter past. “The world doesn’t have to be rushing by. We just have to choose not to rush with it.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel yourself relax. You’re not falling behind. You’re not racing to catch up. You’re just here, in this moment, with Spencer beside you, and that’s enough.

After the walk, you both settle into a quiet cafe nearby. There’s no agenda, no rush, just the simple joy of being together. You sip your coffee slowly, tasting it in a way you usually don’t, letting each sip warm you from the inside. Across the table, Spencer is reading a book, but every now and then, he glances up, meeting your eyes with a quiet smile. It feels easy, natural, as though the world outside the cafe doesn’t even exist.

The afternoon stretches on, a lazy, unhurried thing, and you find yourself wishing that every day could be like this — free from the pressure to be something, to achieve something. Just… peaceful.

“I think I could get used to this,” you say, looking out the window, watching people stroll by without a care in the world.

“Then let’s make it a habit,” he replies softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “Slow days. Just us. Whenever you need it.”

“Really?” you ask, a little surprised. “Even with your job? With everything you have going on?”

He nods, his gaze steady. “Life doesn’t have to be all or nothing. I want to be there for you. To be here, with you. No matter what else is going on.”

For the first time, you feel a sense of calm settle over you, like maybe — just maybe — you don’t have to keep running to be enough. That there’s space in this world for you to slow down, to take things one step at a time. And knowing that Spencer is by your side makes it all feel possible, in a way it never has before.

You lean across the table, resting your head on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. “Thank you, Spencer. For… reminding me.”

He smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Always. Just remember, you’re not alone in this. I’m here, and we’ll figure it out together. One slow day at a time.

As you sit there, nestled against him, you let yourself believe that it’s true — that life doesn’t have to be a race, that you’re allowed to live at your own pace, to notice the small things, to savor each moment as it comes.

For the first time in a long time, you feel yourself slow down, the endless rush in your mind finally quieting. And in that silence, you find something you didn’t even realize you were missing: a sense of peace, of belonging, of knowing that right here, in this moment, you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

[aezuria]

okay now we need those Percy hcs immediately

*ੈ✎ love grows (where my rosemary goes)

"there's something about her hand holding mine, it's a feeling that's fine and i just gotta say 'hey!'" —edison lighthouse

note: OKAY ANON GOT TO WORK AS SOON I SAW THIS 🫡 idk what happened im sorry this is kinda ass 😔😔

content: percy jackson x reader; dating hcs

warnings: cursing

this man is a menace

he's head over heels for you but also almost drowned you

he claims the wave "wasn't supposed to be that big" SIR??

that was like typhoon level shit right there

he just wanted to put you under a littleee bit so he could be your knight in shining armor and save you 🥺🥺

spoiler: you ended up saving yourself

(it's okay he made it up with lots of cuddles and kisses)

you were wading into the water, eager to join percy in the deep end, when suddenly, an unnatural wave crashes into your back and sends you falling into the deep end

you gasp too late and take a mouthful of salty seawater

with your arms flailing in the water, you swam to the surface and gulped for air

you wiped at your face, opening your eyes to see percy near you, but at a distance as if he was afraid of invoking your wrath

you narrowed your eyes at him, his skittish behavior obviously telling you that he was the culprit

"JACKSON!" you swam towards him at a frighteningly quick pace, leaving the poor boy scrambling away and screaming apologies

"IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A JOKE!"

anyway

he swings your hands while you walk

its so silly and he loves it

also a fan of running while your hands are interlocked

the first time was purely out of instinct, him grabbing your hand as a monster crashed behind you guys (because when can demigods catch a break?) and he started sprinting, dragging you along

likes skipping??? he's so weird

says it conserves energy and it's fun (he's not wrong but he forgot to mention the downside of looking like a dumbass)

imagine him skipping into battle

or better yet: "greeks! let's, um, fight stuff!" and they all skip menacingly

that was kinda off topic my bad

if you wear a ponytail he loves spinning it around like a helicopter

makes the little noises too

you feel a tug on your hair, already knowing who it is

"percy? what the hell are you doing?"

"helicopter."

back to almost drowning you, you got back at him by draining all the water in his cabin

to this day, he still doesn't know how you did it

all he knows is that after the sink wouldn't turn on, he knew exactly who it was

he was a man on a MISSION as he ran across the whole camp to catch you

"Y/N!"

"IT WAS THE STOLLS!"

"YOU FILTHY LIAR!"

your relationship is full of prank wars and all that good stuff

once it's over you settle down and cuddle on the shore

he laid out a picnic blanket for the two of you and you talked for hoursss into the night

the two of you were sleepy, heads resting on each other as a gentle breeze swept the salty air into your faces

percy was rambling on and on about you, but you were already half-asleep

"you're just so amazing and wonderful and i'm so grateful for you, you know? you're so fun to be with, and you're so beautiful.. y/n?" he looked down at you after your lack of response, finding your pretty eyes shut

he smiled down at you and pressed a kiss to your forehead

"goodnight."

[hargreeves-duncan]

hi!! i would like to request a Viktor Hargreaves x fem!reader period comfort (fluff)? i’m currently going through my cycle and really would love some comfort from my fav boy, totally understandable if you don’t want to do this :] <33

a/n: thank you for your request!! period comfort fics are my LIFELINE when i’m on mine so i totally get it. it's a little short but i hope that you love it nonetheless❤️

summary: your boyfriend always knows how to comfort you

warnings: none!

word count: 1.0k

It had been a really long day. The second day of your period was famously the worst and it was just your luck that you had been scheduled for tonight's evening shift, when Hotel Obsidian’s bar was at its busiest. Bartending was a drag at the best of times, but tonight you could not be bothered.

By the end of your shift, you were sick of socialising and you couldn’t bear to have another person even look at you. Your feet were aching in your stupid, uniform-code shoes and your entire body felt like it had an anchor weighing it down.

You ran your hands through your hair, undoing the work of the gel that had slicked it down all evening. Everything was feeling like a sensory overload right now and the sticky feeling of your hair on your head along with the throbbing in your head and stomach was proving to be too much.

The rest of the evening’s staff had gone up to bed, having been replaced by those unlucky enough to be working the graveyard shift, and in the late hours of the evening, the sky had turned dark. You took the elevator, selecting the floor of Viktor’s room.

As you walked down the corridor, you couldn’t help but feel grateful, knowing that you’d get to spend the rest of the night and morning in the arms of your boyfriend. The door to your room popped open with a gentle click.

As if sensing your presence, Viktor sat up in bed on his elbows, “Y/N?” He called, squinting at the darkness that covered the room.

Your voice croaky, you mumble a quiet ‘hi’. You toss your room key onto the table and hold onto its matching chair as you slip your shoes off, one by one, throwing them behind you. Viktor smiled gently at you, pushing himself up and resting against the headboard.

You slip off your uniform and Viktor watches you with a gentle smile as you change into more comfortable clothes. Noticing your wiped out demeanour, his eyes soften and he opens his arms for you, “You look tired...”

“Mm… that's because I am,” You say, crawling into bed next to him, “I’m sick of people today.”

He pulls the covers up over your chest, wrapping you up warmly. He pecks your cheek, brushing your hair from your face, “I’m sorry.” He says, his hand moving under the covers to gently rub your lower abdomen.

You sigh happily, leaning your head on him. You smile, “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your job to be sorry.”

Viktor continued to rest his hand on your tummy, hoping his touch would provide you with some comfort, “No, I know, I just… it sucks, you know?”

You hum in agreement as Viktor followed his words up by asking, “What about your cramps? Have they gotten any better?”

He asked, running his hands over your bare skin. His fingers ran back and forth over you, matching the pace of your breathing. You nod, “A little.”

Viktor nodded, cooing softly, “Good, that’s good.” You shifted so that your head rested on his chest, letting you spend a moment, taking in the sound of his breathing. It’s peaceful at this time of night, but, despite the relaxed atmosphere, you still couldn’t settle.

You started to fidget. You fussed over the feeling of your hoodie on your body, the drawstrings were starting to annoy you. You pouted, letting out a small, “Hmph.”

Viktor looked down at your frowning face, “What’s wrong? Do you need me to get anything for you?”

You shake your head, but your pouting didn’t stop. After a moment, you sigh and turn, so that your face is buried in his chest.

“I really want scrambled eggs right now.” You mumble sadly, smacking your lips together as you thought of how good your salty craving would taste.

You felt the rumble of Viktor’s laughter beneath you. He looked down, tilting his head to the side, as he smiled, “Right now? It’s one in the morning.”

“Yeah, I know, but I just want them.” You laugh softly, burying your face against him and breathing in his scent. You felt the tension in your shoulders release.

“I don’t think they make them at this time of night,” Viktor moved his fingers up and began to run them through your hair. He hummed gently, “But I’ll get you some when you wake up, okay? I’ll order room service.”

“Kay.” You muttered softly. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, continuing to massage your scalp in gentle motions as you let out a small huff of frustration at having to wait a whole eight hours.

You sighed, curling up closer to him. His fingers gently began to trail up and down your back in soothing motions. You whined again, wiggling your hips to try and find a position that was comfortable.

He smiled amusedly, moving you so that you were lying on the bed. He began to get up, “You know… I can go and get you some Tylenol or something, if that’d help.”

“No!” You protest, wrapping your arms around his hips as you rest your head on him again, “Stay here, with me.”

Viktor laughed softly, running his hand through your hair again, “I’m not going anywhere crazy. I just want to get you something so that you can feel better.”

You shake your head, clinging to him tighter, “I don’t need it.” Your cheeks were looking a little sickly, and if you were honest with yourself, the pain was starting to make you feel sick, but you didn’t care right now.

Viktor shook his head, smiling at you, “Sometimes you can be so stubborn.” He said, pulling you closer to that you lay on top of him, your limbs tangling with his.

You shrug, smiling sleepily as you press a kiss to his lips, “Just let me have this.”

Viktor chuckled and nodded, pecking your lips again, “Alright.” You cuddle up to your boyfriend and before long, he can hear the soft sighs of you, sound asleep.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of my First Friend.

In this strange new world, nothing is certain—not even one’s safety.

But through it all, you were with me. Always by my side.

Please don’t leave me behind.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

"Grrr...! This stupid thing won't close," Grim complains. He fumbles with the buttons on his robes, which refuse to be secured.

"That's because you've got two left thumbs... or, more accurately, no thumbs at all," his human companion teases. They crouch down, gesturing for him. "Here, I'll help you."

"Myahaha, that's my minion!" Grim scrambles over on all fours—definitely not like a cat. He's far more dignified than some glorified house pet or familiar.

"You're going to get your clothes dirty if you walk around like that," they scold him lightly as they cinch his robes shut, then dusts him off. They pause, going in to adjust his waistband, then the angle of his cap. "There you go." "All set for your big day."

"Our big day," Grim corrects, nudging them on the cheek with his paw. "We're a 2-for-1 deal, remember?"

"Right. Me and the almighty Grim-sama," they reply with a laugh, poking his little nose.

An ear-splitting sob disrupts the intimate scene. Three ghosts in top hats and gray cloaks sail in—one small, one plump, one scrawny—all wailing.

"I can't believe this day's finally arrived!"

"Grimmy and Prefect, all grown up... Off to tackle Twisted Wonderland head-on..."

"WAAAAH, I'm gonna miss my living roomies!!"

"Hey, hey, what's with the empty nest syndrome, guys?" The prefect huddles with the ghosts. They cannot physically touch, but the same energy is there, their arms lingering where the ghosts’ bodies float.

“B-But…!”

“Don't worry. No matter the time or place, we'll carry the spirit of Ramshackle dorm with us wherever we go.“ They smile sympathetically. “That means you’ll always be with us! This world, this life… and into the next.”

"D-Do you really think friendships can last more than a lifetime?" one ghost asks through his tears.

"For sure. So please… Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened. Can you do that for us?”

“O-Okay,” the trio blubbers and sniffles.

“Geez, you’re all a buncha babies,” Grim sighs, paws on his hips. “C’mon, we’re supposed to be celebratin’ US today!! Like my minion said, let’s see some smiles, yeah?”

“We’ll come see you off at the ceremony the,” the small ghost suggests. The cheer is strained, like he is holding back a torrent of tears.

"The ceremony…” The prefect’s eyes go wide and panicked. “Oh crap, we're going to be late! The headmaster should already be starting his speech...!"

"Not a problem, leave it to this Grim-sama. A teleportation spell's easy as takin' a tuna can from a kitten!"

"Sorry, guys. Gotta run...! We'll see you there?"

Grim expertly clambers onto the prefect's neck, making himself comfortable as a boa on their shoulders. The magestone dangling from his neck lights up, and the duo are enveloped in its glow.

The last sight before they blip away are the ghosts, waving good-bye with wet eyes.

A blink later, the two are among a crowd of students in the same uniform as them. Long robes, graduation caps affixed to their heads. They're lined up behind a stage, the curtain stained the dark sapphire of a night sky and dotted with sparkling stars.

Crowley's voice drones from the other side, amplified by a microphone. A waiting crowd murmurs appreciatively as he crows on about hard work, congratulations, and new beginnings.

"See?" Grim winks at his minion. "What'd I tell ya? Anything’s a cinch with my magic~”

"Great going, archmage-in-the-making. You really saved our butts," they say, ruffling his fur. “Come to think of it, were running late for our first day too… and the sorting ceremony before that. I guess we’re destined to be tardy together, huh, Grim?”

"Heh, you got that right!" He bumped his tiny fist with his partner's. “Let’s keep at it, you ‘n me! Grim-sama and his loyal minion, together forever.”

"Oiiiii! Grim, Prefect!!"

"Oh, that’s..."

They glance up, finding a group of boys making their way toward them in the crowd. One with a heart etched onto his face, the other, a spade. A wolf beastman, another with reptilian eyes and slicked back hair, trailed by a smaller, delicate boy and an android with a head of blue flames. Old friends from the other dorms.

"There you are. We thought we'd missed you." Deuce calls out, looking relieved.

"Idiot, we wouldn’t have missed them—you worried for nothin’. They're first on the chopping block cuz they're sooo special." Ace rolls his eyes. "Lu~cky. You get to show off and hog the spotlight before anyone else does.”

"We um... wanted to come and say good luck," Epel offers. "It's a big deal to have made it this far. Starting a new life in an unfamiliar world and all, it's a lot."

"Thanks, everyone. I really couldn't have made it these past few years without your support."

"Ah-HEM!" Grim coughs.

"... And Grim," the prefect added, scratching him behind the ears.

"This is really it, then." Jack is blunt, his arms folded. "Our last chapter at Night Raven College."

"Hmph! Is that all you have to say?! Surely you can muster up more oomph than that!! Today is not just that--it is the start of the rest of our lives." Sebek straightens, looking rather proud.

"Hmm..." Ortho taps at his chin contemplatively. "You know what? When words are not enough to express ourselves, action may be the next best thing!"

"... Wait, what exactly are you suggesting?" Ace asks suspiciously, an eyebrow raised.

"A group hug! For one final sendoff."

Sebek is the first to protest, his voice cutting through loud and clear. "I refuse!! There is absolutely NO WAY I am engaging in physical intimacy with you humans!"

"Not so hot on the idea either."

Ace and Deuce warily stare at each other. "Not happening," they chorus at the same time.

"Well, if the others don't want to, then..." Epel trails off.

"Guys, shut up and group hug already," the prefect groans, throwing their arms around their friends. Reluctant grumbles round the group, but no one makes an active effort to peel away.

“GACK!!” Grim chokes out, crushed between everyone’s chests. When their bodies recede, he collapses, vision spinning, seeing stars.

“Hahah, looks like Grim got flattened like a pancake,” Ace jeers. “Still got it in ya to waltz on stage after that?”

“C-Can it!! Of course I do!” he snaps back.

The timing is opportune. Right then, Crowley’s speech reaches them, a summons.

“… We will now begin calling up our students to receive their diplomas, starting with Ramshackle Dorm.”

“Looks like that’s our cue, Grim.”

“Let’s get goin’!!”

The prefect steps back and passes one final look to their peers. People from many different places, many different backgrounds. United at last.

“Go.”

They do.

Clutching onto their graduation cap, the prefect races up the steps from the wings. Grim bounding along by their side. Every stride equal against the other’s.

Like shooting stars, they’ve come so far. They can’t go back to where they used to be.

When they emerge from the darkness, they’re hit with bright sunshine and stage lights. Spring is in full bloom, welcoming them with balmy weather and armfuls of flowers.

The headmaster beams from behind a podium, gesturing for them to approach. In his grasp, two scrolls secured with navy ribbons.

Their diplomas.

“Presenting Grim and the Prefect, our special students sharing the spot of Valedictorian.”

Grim squeals, soaked up the adoration. He waves at the audience, flashes silly poses for the cameras. The prefect laughs, prodding him along with their hands.

“Come on, let’s not stall the ceremony for everyone else.”

“One moment.”

A smallish figure blocks their path. It’s a young man with crimson hair and heart-shaped ahoge. He holds out his hand--and the prefect, stunned, takes it.

"Riddle-senpai. You've returned."

"Prefect. Grim." He politely greets them, shaking their hands in turn. "May the Queen of Hearts and her spirit of strictness guide you as you cross this threshold in life. Remain disciplined, and I know you will both achieve even greater things."

Riddle releases, and another seizes their hands. This shake is rougher, looser.

"Congrats, you survived four years at this place," Leona purrs. He wears less of a smile and more of a bemused smirk. "Persisted, like the King of Beasts did."

His duty done, he casually drops them. Azul elegantly ducks in, his grasp firm and tone professional.

"Fufu. What an honor it is to reunite like this. Your benevolence has done much to improve our dear Night Raven College. The Sea Witch would surely extol your generosity."

"Prefect, Grim!!"

Azul steps back with a bow, making space for the next person.

Kalim practically collides with them, excitedly yanking their hands up and down as he chatters. "So good to see you again!! Gahahah, you haven't changed a bit! I bet you're much wiser now though--maybe just as mindful as the Sorcerer of the Sands was!”

Behind him, someone clears their throat. Awareness hits him and Kalim gasps, letting go of the graduates.

"It takes considerable tenacity to arrive at this milestone,” Vil says, clasping the prefect and Grim’s hands in his own. Then, he smiles ever so slightly. “… Be proud, potatoes. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed by the Beautiful Queen.”

He steps aside, allowing a gloomy, hooded figure to replace him. Idia grimaces, shielding his eyes from the lights glaring down at him.

“Tch… Dragged me out here for this,” he mutters, keeping his clammy, pale hands shoved squarely into his hoodie pockets.

A pause—and Idia managed an anxious smile. “GG or whatever. I guess even an amateur can clear hard levels if they’re diligent enough. The King of the Underworld was a noob at one point too.”

(“Is that really the most encouraging thing you could muster?” Vil tuts from the sidelines.)

With that, Idia shuffles off, joining the other ex-dorm leaders.

“Nyahahah, it feels nice to be recognized~” Grim snickers.

“Well, I certainly hope you haven’t had your fill yet.”

A frigid touch comes upon the prefect and Grim’s hands. That voice, like sudden nightfall. They find themselves staring up at a colossal shadow with leering green eyes, scales studding their forehead.

"M-Myah?!” Grim’s fur stands on end.

“Even you came, Tsunotaro!!” the prefect gasps.

“I wouldn’t miss this ceremony for the world,” Malleus smoothly reassures them. “I wished to lend my support to my dear friends and send them off with my blessing.”

He raises his arms to the open sky. Bright blue, barely a cloud in it. Sunlight pouring down, framing the ceremony in a golden spotlight.

“The Thorn Fairy’s utmost value is nobility. As you of the new generation sally forth into the world, let your souls shine as noble and true as her own.“

Uproarious applause rises, cheering and clapping combining into one frantic melody. The flowers blush, swelling large and healthy with color. The sun itself seems to brighten too, the wind lifting in a joyous, effervescent song.

“Congratulations...!!”

“Waaaah, Tsunotaro made the whole world light up!” Grim cries, eyes sparkling. “Heheh, okay, that’s a pretty good one—but watch out cuz one day I’ll be one of the top 5 strongest, most charismatic mages too!”

“Fufufu. I look forward to that day.”

Malleus bends down, his lips puling back to reveal luminous teeth.

“May you never be apart,” he whispers, so quiet that no one hears. Then, more loudly, “Congratulations. I wish you all a happily ever after.”

“I dunno what you’re goin’ on about, but thanks for hypin’ us up!!” Grim grins from ear to ear. “Today’s definitely… the best day ever!”

“I’m glad of it.”

And may it remain that way, forevermore.

[bellarkeselection]

Walter to the Rescue

Gif not mine it belongs to @alphinias

After a ride in the woods late at night you wind up getting lost and to the readers surprise Cole actually answers your call.

Tag list - @cognacdelights

Kicking my horse in the belly to go faster with the wind running through my hair that I left completely loose. This wasn’t the first time I had taken one of the Walter family's horses to clear my head from a day of high school. It all could be a lot especially when everyone in this town knows you have a close family relationship with the Walter kids. Because it only results in half the school thinking you're sleeping with some of them. “Woah boy. Easy now.”

My horse begins making some noise in protest hearing some thunder off in the distance. I knew that horses could get spooked easy but I wasn't too worried about it. Alex had taught me how to keep your cool on them. Looking around at the treeline the leaves have already begun changing colors making it really beautiful. “Ah!” I screamed suddenly when lighting hit the ground in front of me and that caused my horse to whine and throw me off its back.

“Ow! No wait…” I called out to my horse but he was already far off into the treeline. Running a hand through my hair I sighed seeing that the sky was getting darker meaning there was a storm coming. Digging inside my jacket pocket I drew out my phone dialing the house phone getting no answer. “Seriously a house full of that many people and nobody hears the phone!”

I guess I couldn't blame them for not answering. That house is always loud and crazy no matter what time of day. Plus now that Jackie from New York had moved in things got more complicated. Tapping my knees in thought I tried to decide who would answer my call. Alex was busy with Jackie, Parker was probably outside playing with Benny. Will was working tonight selling houses. Jordan, Nathan, Lee, Isaac and Danny didn't drive. So that left me in the hands of the most popular guy in town who was known for hooking up with multiple girls Cole. Lifting my head up to the sky I felt heavy rain coming down where I scrambled to my feet but collapsed when I felt a sharp pain in my left ankle. “Shit!...guess he's my only choice now.”

It wasn't that I hated the guy. I just hated the reputation he had made for himself. The rain came pouring down where I grunted, forcing myself to stand up. I hopped over to the treeline to get some coverage from the storm. The wind was picking up, shaking everything so I dialed his number. “Pick up, pick up.”

“What's going on, Y/n?” His voice came through the phone.

“Don't make fun of me but I'm lost.” I stated.

He chuckled at me. “How did little woodlen girl get lost?”

“Cole, I'm not in the mood for teasing right now.” I spat back.

The former star football player still was laughing on the other end. “I’m sorry I just can’t believe girl who hunts with her father managed to get lost on our property. I mean I never thought I’d see the day from someone like you.”

“Cole, I am currently stuck out in a storm and called you for help so can you take this seriously please!” I raised my voice pulling the hood of my jacket over my head shivering when the wind blew harshly against me.

Finally to my surprise he came to his senses responding back to me. “Alright I’ll come get you.” He hung up the call and I was forced to listen and watch the storm get worse for an hour or so.

Burying my face into my knees my body was shaking from the cold and the fact that my clothes were soaked head to toe. I heard a vehicle engine getting closer in my direction and it pulled to a stop showing me it was Cole’s truck he was usually working on in the barn. The drivers door flung opened and quickly shut where I saw someone running towards me with a jacket in their hands. “Cole?”

“One knight in shining armor, woodland girl.” He declared dropping down on a knee, draping the jacket over my shoulders.

I glared up into his green eyes seeing his blonde hair sticking to his forehead. “Can you please call me by my actual name for once?”

“Maybe someday. Come on let's get out of the cold before we both get frost bite.” He offered me his hands tugging me to stand.

“Argh!” I winced, dropping down on my other knee after my injured ankle.

Cole was quick on his reflectances sweeping me up bridal style into his muscular arms. “Looks like you needed a better horse riding teacher than Alex huh?”

“Let’s not talk about it right now.” I said feeling embarrassed enough as is. He helped me into the passenger seat and we drove home. He carried me upstairs and sat me down on the edge of his bed in his bedroom.

He searched around in the closet grabbing himself a change of clothes. Then he tossed me one of his blue tea shirts and some shorts. “Here I can help you if you need it.”

“Turn around first.” I instructed him, blushing since I haven't even kissed anyone before. He did as told giving me the chance to slip my wet shirt for his and shrugging off my jeans until I thought about getting the shorts on. I pulled them up as much as I could before getting his attention. “Cole, I can’t get them up without standing on my foot.”

He looks over his shoulder coming back to me moving his hands down to the left side telling me. “Lift your foot for me.” I lifted my foot and he shrugged it up then helping me sit back down on the bed so I could do the same to my right leg without his assistance.

“Thanks, Cole.” I whispered where he stands in front of me letting silence fill the room. I avoided his gaze, not sure of what to say until I shut my eyes to ask the question. “So did you have to skip a hookup with Erin to come rescue me?”

He tilted his head to the side. “Why would you care if I did. You have a crush on me or something, woodland girl?”

“Y/n, you know my name so use it.” I corrected him. “And even if I did, you don't have relationships. I wouldn't want to be another girl tricked by The Cole Effect.”

He raised a brow at my words. “Oh yeah. What makes you think you'd just be another girl I hook up with?”

“Like I said everyone at school knows you don't do real boyfriend girlfriend relationships. You do hook ups and my mother saw it before I did but I refuse to let my feelings for you lead me down that path since you can't possibly feel the same way about me as I do you.” I accidentally admitted without realizing it to him.

Cole stared blankly at me. “You don't think I feel the same?”

“If you did, you have a funny way of showing it.” Shrugging my shoulders I lowered my gaze down from his green orbs.

Cole simply replied then closed the gap between us. “Is this enough of an effort for ya.” He cupped my face in his hands, crashing his lips down onto mine.

I gasped in shock and awe that the famous Cole Walter was kissing me. He was kissing me, the girl that wasn’t popular like he was. The girl that was just a friend of the family but still no one special. “Cole…I’ve never….never done anything like this.” I mumbled tugging on his blonde locks deepening the kiss. He moaned gently pushing me down onto the mattress and he climbed over top of me never breaking the heated kiss until we needed air.

“I’m not doing this to just have a hook up with you, Y/n. I’m not good with commitment but I do actually care about you.” He breathed out holding himself up by his hands on either side of me, blonde hair falling in front of his eyes and his eyes were focused on me.

Raising one hand up I tangled my fingers into his hair asking the question that was eating away at me now. “So what does that make us now, Cole Walter?”

“We can take this slow and figure it out as we go along, Y/n Woodland Girl L/n.” He smiled leaning down kissing me gently this time. I giggled wrapping my arms around his neck bringing him closer to me enjoying the kisses we shared.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

[scorpioracha]

Dating Yoongi

We've finally got the dating Yoongi headcanons!! I'm sorry it took so long but boy is it lengthy so strap in. this is not proofread and im fucking exhausted so edits to be done eventually. if you enjoy reblog, like and leave a comment. cw: does contain smut and one kys moment

Your meet cute with Yoongi ended up being more of a meet awkward than anything. It was 3am at one of the many random convenience stores in Gangnam and you were exhausted, exhausted and hungry. You were doing a year in Seoul for your major and the timezones were really fucking you up. Puffy sleepy eyes,glasses on and a sleep mask resting on your forehead made quite the picture.

It was also quite the picture when you ran into a rack of honey butter chips and wiped out on the floor.

Full wipeout.

Legs up,gravity turned on its head wiped out.

Thankfully the only thing wounded was your pride, but you kinda wished you knocked yourself out so you couldn’t see the handsome man towering over laughing so hard his eyes practically disappeared and a gummy smile on his face. He had a cup of ice and one of those americano packets balanced in one hand and a helmet dangling in his other.

“...chana?”

“Huh?”you said in a daze. 

“Gwaenchana?”he purred in a low rumble. He looked at your lost expression and sucked in a breath.

“Are you okay?”It was a little clunky and half mumbled but you didn’t want to put this man through any more mental torment so you nodded quickly.

“Ne, na gwaenchana!”you replied and quickly scrambled to your feet, almost falling once again because your ankle decided now was the time to roll. He quickly reached out and steadied you, looking at you with so much bewilderment the whole situation felt comical. He looked at the hand that still rested on your arm and quickly pulled it away, you swear you saw his pale cheeks turn pink.

“Um…”he rumbled, looking at you with weary eyes. “stay”

You nodded with wide eyes as you watched this random man run around the convenience store and come back with a juice box and a random red pouch. He looked at you and held up each one.

“Bae juice”

He held up the red pouch. “Hong sam jelly for sukchwi…one moment”

He pulled out his phone and typed quickly. He held the phone to his ear and hummed.

“For hangover”he said, pointing to the two items again. Your eyes widened and you shook your head rapidly. You weren’t drunk. He definitely misinterpreted the situation and just smiled, giving you a smile and waving goodbye before disappearing into the night.

And what do you do when a pretty man buys you pear juice and ginseng jelly in a foreign country?

You fucking c o n s u m e it.

And the next morning when you woke up late to your 8:00am lecture, you just blamed the crazy night because wow what the fuck happened.

You spent the rest of your classes thinking about that handsome stranger. Maybe you did hit your head because WHY didn’t you ask for his name or his katalk? You could have done the whole ‘oh handsome young man, I need to pay you back’ kinda schtick but your brain decided to cosplay the very first windows computer and blue screen the minute you looked at him. stupid.

“Stupid” you groaned, trudging back to your dorm. You had been blessed—got accommodations—for a single room so it was just you and your twin sized 

Oh yeah, and your pining. 

Couldn’t forget about your pining.

You needed a drink. A good drink,some good food and some cartoons to get your mind off this random man. Within minutes you had a bottle of soju and a hefty platter of tteokbokki on the way. Maybe you’d go out for bingsu sometime this week with the girls from your lecture. They were sweet and treated you just like anyone else despite the racial and cultural differences, doting on you as their new maknae and always making sure you ate between classes. It was nice to be looked out for so thoroughly, especially when you were so far away from home. You pulled your phone out to text them when you got a notification that your delivery driver was already on the way.

Huh. they were already earning themself a tip. You stood eagerly by the door waiting and even though you were watching the app like a hawk, you jumped when the doorbell rang and scrambled to open it.

“Gamsahab-”you looked up and saw a familiar set of eyes. “...-nida”

“Soju?”he raises his brow in a way that says ‘again?’. You felt your face grow hot and shook your head rapidly. He just smirked and handed over your takeout bags.

Once again you fucked up,blanked and forgot to ask for his name.

 Damn pretty boy with his pretty eyes and his stupid smile.

It was months before you had seen him again. 

Time heals all wounds and you began to move on. You hung out more with your friends, went to karaoke,saw the sights of Seoul and slowly but surely felt yourself moving on.

It was on a rainy day in May where you found yourself at your usual convenience store. The weather went from sunny skies to torrential downpour within minutes and you had just gotten your hair done. You were looking for an umbrella but found yourself in the snack aisle. 

Blame it on the wind.

What you didn’t expect to find in the snack aisle were seven men bickering. 

You kinda just stood like 🧍🏾‍♀️ until one of them finally turned and god he was stunning 

“Yah, Yoongi-yah!! Move and let this lady through!”

The ‘Yoongi’ in question quickly scooted out of the way, mumbling about how they were all in the way. 

That mumble…

“Yoongi..”you whispered before you could even stop yourself. His gaze snapped up and for once you caught him off guard. His eyes flitted over you rapidly and his mouth opened and shut like a nutcracker.

“Soju girl,”he whispered. Then the moment was lost.

"na iroumi aniya(that’s not my name)” you huffed in annoyance. You know there was an honorific you were supposed to use somewhere in that sentence but your point still stood.

“You speak Korean”another boy said and god he was tall.

“Yes I speak Korean”you said, tilting your head up at him.

“Hyung, you said soju girl couldn’t speak Korean!”a voice laughs. You squint your eyes at this Yoongi who seemingly wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He stared at you like he had seen a ghost actually which wasn’t making things much better. The tall boy sighed and took a step forward, bowing even. 

“I apologize for my hyung,”he said solemnly. “He’s usually not this dumb. I’m Kim Namjoon and these are my bandmates. What’s your name?”

You smiled and returned the bow, happy to finally have some familiarity, both language and warmth.

“I’m y/n”you said. “I think me and your hyung have some catching up to do”

Yes, to say it was a meet awkward was the nicest way to put it.

It was a fucking train wreck of events if you were being completely honest.

You had exchanged info with Namjoon seeing as he spoke the most English and was the only one who didn’t 👁️👄👁️ at you which was nice and had quickly become good friends with one another.

Seeing that their leader liked you, the rest of the boys quickly followed suit and you suddenly had a much bigger friend group than you could even imagine.

Yoongi had become a lot more reserved in a way that was off putting to say the least. You’d only ever spoken to him twice before but there was something off.

you’d asked Namjoon about it during one of your study/music/kill each other from frustration sections and he just shrugged mumbling something about ‘hyung being busy’ 

you rolled your eyes and grabbed your stuff to find out yourself. That’s what you get for asking a dumbass.

Yoongi had been exactly where you’d expect him to be, crammed into one of the practice rooms with his headphones and laptop.

“Yoongi,” you said, tapping on his shoulder. He spun around in a startle and looked at you with a relieved sigh.

“Oh god”he breathed out, “I thought you were one of the maknae begging for food”

You couldn’t help but to smile, all the prior annoyance melting out of your pores and back to the depths of hell where they belonged. Talking to Yoongi was easy, that is when he was still talking to you.

“How do you know I'm not begging for food?”you smirked, taking a seat on the lumpy couch.

“Well, are you?”he asked, raising a brow. You shook your head and leaned back into the couch.

“You’re off the hook”you said, “but I do have a question” “Which is?” “Why have you been avoiding me lately?”

The room grew silent enough you could hear a pin drop. Cornered was the only way you could describe Yoongi. His shoulders scrunched up and he seemed to fold in on himself.

“No reason,”he said plainly.

Your eyes narrowed.

“So you have been avoiding me?”

His eyes widened.

“That’s not what I meant-”

“Then what did you mean?”you asked. Your patience was wearing thin and your heart was racing something ugly.

“I was trying to give you space”

“Space for what? I didn’t ask for space!”you snapped.

“Space for you and Namjoon!”he snapped back, folding his arms over his chest.

“Me and Namjoon?”you gagged. “The last thing me and Namjoon need is space, please collect your dongsaeng cause he won’t leave me alone!”

“Well he’s your boyfriend!”Yoongi threw back.

Huh.

“Huh?!”You shrieked. 

“It doesn’t take a genius to find out,”Yoongi continued, rolling his eyes. “So you can drop the naive act”

“Naive act—Yoongi, you think I'm dating Namjoon?”you asked. You felt like you were going to be sick. Namjoon wasn’t bad by any means, he was just so older brother coded it was disgusting.

“I don't think, I know,”he said. “You guys spend all your time together,you go on dates,you take naps together; it’s obvious”

“Well since you’re such a genius”You said, “How come you couldn’t tell that i’m in love with you?”

Huh.

“Huh?”he said, spinning around in his chair to fully face you. You ran a hand over your face and honest to god laughed.

“Idiots”you said in disbelief. “You’re all idiots”

“Hey-”

“I've been pining over you for months and this whole time you think i’ve been dating Namjoon”you said, shaking your head.

“You’ve been what?”Yoongi said. 

“Crushing on you”you emphasized, “You idiot”

“i..I don’t know what to say,”he said. You sighed and fully leaned back against the chair, feeling all the blood rush to your head from your bold confession. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

“You can let me down gently for starters”you chuckled humorlessly.

“Let you down—what are you talking about?”he asked.

“Just reject me already!”You exclaimed, waving your hands frantically. You felt like a madwoman.

“Why would I reject you?”his eyebrows furrowed.

You were going to be sick.

“I’m going to be sick”you laughed, running your hands over your face and god were you crying?

“Why are you crying?”he rumbled softly, leaning in and wiping the tears off your cheeks. You just laughed harder, but that ended up turning into a sob because you were so tired. You weren’t expecting a fairytale but this wasn’t the turn you thought today would take. You felt yourself being pulled closer and you knew you should pull away, you knew better. It was all too much and he would just hurt you, but his hoodie smelled like coffee. His hoodie smelled like coffee and his hands were warm as they wrapped around you. You always wondered if he ran hot or cold, but he was neither; Yoongi was pleasantly warm. His hand had somehow wriggled between the two of you and rested on your cheek, rubbing the streaks where your tears trailed. His breath rose and fell in a steady rhythm and for a moment you felt weighless.

“What a mess, huh?”he mumbled, tracing his thumb over your temple. “I went and made all these assumptions…because I was afraid to say I love you”

“You love me?”you whispered. 

“Mm”he rumbled in affirmation. “You didn’t know?”

“No”you said, keeping your voice low, scared if you spoke too loud, the moment would disappear.

“I thought I was being obvious,”he said.

“I thought I was being obvious,”you said. You pulled your head back to look at Yoongi and that gummy smile was on full display.

“We’re both idiots”

Actually dating Yoongi went much smoother than the confession process.

In the early days, the two of you spent a lot of time in the genius studio doing parallel play, you’d work on your assignments and he would work on music. 

Obviously with many interruptions from the maknae line + hoseok, occasionally being prodded by Seokjin and Namjoon to eat,drink and get fresh air

Y’all needed to touch grass and they were sick of it

Being so close to the band in their early days formed an immeasurable bond between you all

But it also lead to a lot of sacrifices on your part that you weren’t prepared to make. 

There was the obvious like no posting about the boys on social media,nda’s up the wazoo,etc. This was all expected and you were willing to do so.

What you weren’t prepared for was how cruel the kmedia could truly be. You weren’t from here, you were a foreigner and that already put a target on your back. The fact that you weren’t thin or pale didn’t help one bit either. 

Thankfully, the boys and Yoongi reassured you in private. Namjoon did damage control and argued with the company to do more on your behalf, while Jimin and the maknae stood by your side like bodyguards wherever you went in silent solidarity. You were never alone. Jin dropped you off at university in the morning, along with Jungkook. Scolding the two of you to have a good day and to eat something that wasn’t chips. Naturally, Jungkook would bring you back once your classes were done and continued to gripe that even though he was older than you, he was still stuck in highschool.

You still hold this over his head to this date.

So thankfully, you had support. Support that if you didn’t have you weren’t sure where you would be honestly. It really felt like you all had become a little family, and being so far from home that was something you desperately needed.

Once the group got larger and was in a more stable position you better believe they all stopped holding their tongues, especially Yoongi. He could be a little hard to read at times but you were not expecting him to be getting himself into full on twitter wars on a burner account over you 💀

“Yoongi stop telling people to kill themselves”

“No”

Being in love with Yoongi felt easy, it was natural. He continued to take care of you in little ways whether it was packing your lunch,giving you transit fare or rubbing your temples when you were tired and falling asleep on him.

Our mans is definitely about that acts of service life. He loves quietly.

Pda made him want to die just a little inside but he wasn’t opposed to holding your hand. It wasn’t like he had anything to hide anyways, you guys were already public. 

He wasn’t the jealous type and although he’d never admit it, he loved how much you and the boys love each other. He’s got a bunch of pictures on his phone of you just in the dorms being domestic. You spent more time there than you did in your own dorm room.

 So although he doesn’t say it often, he shows it with every part of his being. The way his eyes sparkle when he sees you in the morning, his proud smile in your graduation photos. It also made his heart flutter that you got his dry humor and you dished it right back to him, smack in the middle of the maknae line teasing him and Jin about being old.

And when you learned Daegu Satoori from Taehyung to surprise him? Namjoon had to hold him back from proposing on the spot. And to think he ever thought you and Namjoon were dating.

Yoongi bits ✨tid bits about you and yoongi ✨

Yes Yoongi genuinely thought you were drunk and he wasn’t flirting(he got that nuerodivergent rizz)

When Yoongi told you the mint hair wasn’t real and washed it out you cried 🧍🏾‍♀️

You guys have two apartments together, one near Hybe and one in Daegu. You both prefer the apartment in Daegu because that means Holly gets to stay with you guys.

Everytime a new design for shooky it mysteriously appears in the apartment.

You guys have two cats per your request(a white one named sugar and a black one named gloss) the things Yoongi does for love

You guys have been happily engaged for the past year and he proposed in the most unromantic way possible 

NSFW

Baby, Yoongi is a switch with a capital S

Now I have never met a non kinky neurodivergent person and Yoongi is no exception. He enjoys a good power dynamic and has definitely explored kink in the past with previous partners so he’s experienced.

 But Yoongi does occasionally just like to fuck, no rules no dynamics. Just vanilla sex

He’s a lot softer than his image and he honestly likes the separation between the two for his own sanity. The fans think he’s this no nonsense hardass, but he’d much rather praise and reward you than dole out punishments.

He’s a softie at heart and finds a bit of bratty behavior to be cute so you can definitely get away with a lot. Not to say he’s a complete pushover but he definitely will let a good amount of back talk slide before he puts you in your place. It's almost infuriating how calm he is if you’re the type that brats in hopes of a punishment. He’ll just look at you and laugh about how cute you’re being before returning back to whatever he was doing.

It’s pretty hard to tick him off but also not impossible, the easiest way to get him to snap is to mess with him in the studio; especially if he has a deadline coming up. That's how you end up on your knees crammed under his desk not even allowed to suck his dick but just sit there and keep it warm while he works. The condescending mumbles and coos he lets out while stroking your head is enough to send you careening straight into subspace. “Just needed something in your mouth, huh?”he’d purr and gently drag his nails across your scalp

Tongue technology. We all know about it, but you get to experience this first hand at your beck and call. Yoongi is the first one to admit you’re spoiled and when you’re not being a brat, all you have to do is ask and he’ll be in between your legs. He could and has spent hours down there teasing your folds and giving you orgasm after orgasm until you can’t take it anymore.

Somnophilia. This is a kink that goes both ways for you guys but honestly he finds it really hot when you take what you need from him. Waking up groggy in the middle of the night to you fucking yourself on his cock is one of the quickest ways to get Yoongi whining and gripping the sheets. Bonus points if you tie his hands up or cuff them to the bed posts.

He’s not really a fan of quickies and prefers to take his time, but he’s not opposed to shoving you into a closet and getting you off on his fingers if you’re getting needy. He just wants to take care of his girl.

Speaking of his hands, they end up around your throat and in your mouth quite often. Whether you’re sucking or gagging on them, Yoongi makes good on this little fixation and makes sure you get your fill.

He’s down to being pegged. Somebody had to say it guys,🗣️ Yoongi wants something up his ass ‼️

Whether you have him bent over a table or you’re tied up and he’s riding you, Yoongi does enjoy penetration and he’s not ashamed of it. He likes how dazed and pliant you get when he’s bouncing on your strap all flushed and pink and whining. it’s a rush to his head and sends him over the edge faster than he can get a hand on himself.

He’s a fan of cozy aftercare and pillow talk. After you’ve both cleaned up and the bed is moderately clean, he’s off in the kitchen getting snacks and water so you two can cuddle and recap what you liked and disliked. He gets really affectionate after he cums so it usually dissolves into him mumbling praises and kissing all over your face before falling asleep.

All in all Yoongi is the best boy.

[houseofhyde]

iv. another man's pain

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. a visit to dorne goes awry as an unexpected visitor arrives, tensions between in-laws come to ahead at last. chapter warnings. no use of y/n, brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, lady stark is having a brat summer ( sunbathing and arguing with her situationship ), male infertility, canon-accurate misogyny, mentions of pregnancy + marital s/a + war crimes + death, a little angst, a little fluff, a little smut ( unprotected piv, breast/nipple play, oral- f receiving, aemond is the verbal consent king ) please kindly notify me of any warning i may have missed. word count. 19.4k (for my pwp girlies: they fuck at the end, i swear 😭) hyde’s input. this chapter is extremely yap-centric, i'm so sorry. i could not get these bitches to shut the fuck up. please ignore any typos, i've driven myself mad re-reading this over and over :( another man's series. feast. comfort. pleasure. pain. legacy. jealousy. ( coming october) read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

The heat in Dorne is sticky.

Stifling, overwhelming, heavy. Upon inhale, it slides through the nose, yet, in exhale, it weighs heavy on the chest. It leaves one panting like a dog, with sweat that soaks through linen, and a longing for the forgiving breeze that sweeps its way through the Red Keep. Already, you await the day the carriage arrives to shuttle you off on your journey back to the capital, if only to move an inch without leaving a river of your own perspiration behind.

Six days and five nights into your moon-long stay in the southern lands of sand and your trunk remains fairly untouched, filled to the brim with clothes too heavy to face the heat. Helaena promises it’ll pass, that soon you will acclimatise and find yourself basking in the kiss of sunlight upon your skin. “Until then,” she’d assured you, a gentle squeeze at your hand across the vanity’s table. “You’re more than welcome to make use of my old dresses. With my body in recovery and two children in need of my care, I no longer make up the same shape I once did.”

At first, the proposal was to host you in Sunspear. A written invitation, extended by none other than Prince Qoren himself, hand delivered to you by one of the King’s squires as you shared a morning under the shade of the godswoods alongside the Dowager Queen. The pair of you had read over it in tandem, a silence overtaking, before you promptly announced your need for rest, scrambling the letter as close as possible to your chest as you raced off to the safety of your quarters. By evening, your husband had been informed, his own mother encouraging him to accept the invitation.

“It will serve the girl well,” she’d insisted, clutching at the arms of her chair within the hall of the small council, meeting long over and naught but the mother and son occupying the tension filled room. “There’s been little joy for her here as of late. The burdens of politics have begun to take toll on her, for certain. It will serve your wife well to take a much needed break.”

“The only burden politics brings her is the difficult decision of which gown to wear to dinner with Lord Up-Himself and his Lady wife of House Prissy-Cunt. Meanwhile, it is I, her husband, who bears the true difficulties of the crown!” Woe is he, the king who never wanted to be, trapped eternally in a life of decadence and obedience, a war raised in his name, and half a bloodline destroyed in his wake. Otto Hightower had warned his daughter, before the dragons had truly begun to dance, of how Aegon’s self-inflicted victimhood would one day be his downfall. With every passing day, the King’s mother sees this destruction growing closer. “My wife is of no use to me building sandcastles down South. She needs to make me an heir, not run off to take care of my sister’s.”

“A visit to Dorne may prove to be more fruitful than you believe, Aegon.”

And, so, it was settled. Three moons after the birth of Prince Qoren and Helaena’s second child — a moon-eyed boy, with his father’s raven locks and his mother’s smile, awarded the name of Jaehaerys — you would depart the city gates, with a small travelling band of knights upon saddles and a carriage large enough to sleep two, yourself and your dearest lady-in-waiting.

Only days before your arrival, however, tragedy struck. An assassin of the Free Cities, infiltrated within the walls of the Martell’s seat of power, made an attempt on Princess Helaena’s life. A half-failure, the assassin claimed a life but mistook a sleeping maid for the dragon girl. The premises were vacated, with Prince Qoren demanding his family find shelter someplace safe, someplace private. 

Three leagues to the west, buried away from curious eyes and beached by the waves of the Summer Sea, the Water Gardens sit. With a decadent, lavish palace leading out into a garden of rare beauty where palm trees stand taller than dragons, and water lilies float upon crystal-clear ponds, and rose buds burst into perfect bloom. Raised in honour of his darling wife, it is a vision of Prince Qoren’s that stands not yet completed, the beginning structures of what will one day be a private sanctuary to the dornish royals, a home to grow their own in, far away from the intruding eyes of court and capital.

Welcomed with open arms — that very soon wrapped around you in a tight squeeze — thus began your peaceful getaway.

Where days in the Keep are spent hiding in shadows, and exchanging pleasantries filled with discomfort, and sitting rigidly at a family dinner table, your days in the Water Gardens are full of glee. The laughter of the many Martell children, running rampant down hallways and through bushes, dirtying their knees with the green of grass and the rough of sand. Afternoons splayed out on beds, hand-fanned with the fallen leaves of palm trees, a soothing battle against the burning heat. A table foreign to silence, with Prince Qoren’s ever present queries into your day, and Helaena’s ecstatic chatter over the recent stitching patterns you’ve taught her, and the many other welcoming faces of the Martell bloodline, each smile warmer than the last.

By far, however, the thing you enjoy most is this: watching over your niece.

Day by day, at an hour when the newborn babe lays his head down to sleep, be it morning, or noon, or evening, you have taken it upon yourself to relieve poor Helaena of the tougher parts of motherhood, gifting her with the blessing of uninterrupted rest as you take her firstborn by the hand and let her guide you around the dornish grounds.

More often than not, she brings you here, to the shallow waters of a pond, with a sweet aroma of surrounding blood-orange trees and the calming sounds of water flowing out a central fountain enough to ease even the most troubled of minds.

Right now, your young niece stands soaked to the bone, dancing around as you sit close by, feet dipped within the very same cooling waters with the occasional splash coming your way from the toddler. In the few days you have been here, she seems to have grown so quickly, doubling in size before your very eyes, and finding a more steady manner in which to stand upon her feet, and learning to babble more syllables, each sounding less like nonsense than the last.

“Aliandra,” at the call of her name, those violet eyes are upon you. They carry the signature twinkle of a mind yet unmarred by life shining bright in your direction. “What is this called?”

You extend your hand towards her, a freshly peeled chunk of orange plucked between two fingers, and await the acceptance from her smaller hands.

“Fruit!” You believe is what she means to say, though her r is hardly pronounced and you’re certain she’s added an extra vowel at the end.

Still, you give her the win, departing with the sweet slice and delighting at the mess made as she bites into it, a spray of juice splashing down her tiny palms. It is incentive enough to move closer, wading through the shallow waters and leaving the lower fabric of your dress to soak itself as it trails behind you. At the height of the young princess, you sink down onto your knees, a much needed refreshment as the water settles over your waist.

“Here, sweet girl,” with a voice as gentle as your touch, you guide her to dip her juice stained hands under the water, the whole of your thumb wiping at the inside of her palm. “We ladies mustn’t dirty our hands.”

In lieu of a reply, the small child merely giggles and surrenders herself fully into your hold, her tiny limbs relaxing so suddenly, you have no choice but to let her rest within your lap, a head of white blonde hair finding respite upon your shoulder.

There is a strange emotion that only the presence of your niece seems to conjure. One of desperation, one of tenderness, one of an all-consuming need to hold her as close as possible and shelter her from all harm that may befall her in the cruelness of this life.

As a child, you’d never truly known the experience of being the elder sibling, the one looked at to lead, and guard, and tend to any other youngling alongside your parents. That job had always been Cregan’s and, for better or for worse, he had made a point of truly stepping into this protective role when it came to you, watching over you from cradle, to courtyard, to the carriage that dragged you down to your fated marriage.

It is half a wonder if this feeling she gives you is owed to the Mother and her instincts at last taking root within your heart, a seed watered slowly into a sapling that promises to grow and spread its branches from limb to limb. An emotional catch-up to the rest of your body, cursed by the moon’s blood for almost a decade, only now do you feel fit to step into the role of care-giver, nurturer, mother.

As if reading your thoughts, Aliandra nuzzles deeper into you, a tiny fist clasping a mighty hold of the yellow silks you wear.

“Are you tired, little darling?” Though she shakes her head in denial, you hear and feel the way she yawns against you, no doubt tired out by the blaze of the sun’s warmth.

You choose to stay like this a little longer, swaying slowly back and forth as you clutch your niece against you, small ripples in the water left in the wake of your movement. They seem to grow larger with each sway, the tremor upon the liquid’s surface lasting longer, the ripples rising higher and dipping lower.

A squawk of birds steals your attention in time to catch how the small flock fly away from a palm tree. You can’t help yourself from pointing at the tree, nor the whispered inquisition you throw at the girl: “Ali, what is that called?”

You watch her head raise off your shoulder, her whole body shifting to look at the tree, her head comically tilting straight up at the sky. The wind picks up, the palm leaves beginning to shake back and forth as the girl lets out an excited squeal. “Zaldrīzes !”

A cloud seems to swallow the sun whole, a cast of darkness coming across the gardens and greying the world around you. In your arms, the child’s excited chant continues, both hands pointing at the sky as a tiny voice calls out syllables you can’t make meaning of, over and over.

“Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes !”

Craning your neck back, you point your eyes up to the sky and find a mass of flesh.

Aged, large, green.

Claws, tail, wings.

A dragon.

The dragon.

Vhagar.

As a child, you begged your mother to visit the beach.

The request came no more than a day after Cregan had returned from a voyage to the Iron Islands, the first of many politically motivated visits he’d make with your father before his passing. You had been young at the time, no larger than a child of seven years, and so full of wide-eyed belief and childlike wonder that it wasn’t difficult for your older brother to enchant you with stories of sand made of specs of gold, and crystal blue waters warm enough to melt away centuries of snow, and a horizon that knows no limit, stretching onward into an eternity of undiscovered lands, where not even the fiercest of dragons dared venture towards. You’d decided, then and there, that you would be the one to go discover such lands, man your own ship and set off along the perfect waters.

This dream would die, of course, many moons later, as you boarded your first ship and a great fear of it took grip of you.

Your mother hadn’t the heart to tell you the truth of the matter. Of how the beach Cregan had visited had been naught but a warsight, sand made of the dust of bones ground down by time, and water so violent it sweeps away anyone fool enough to dip their feet in, and the sea-creatures dwelling at the bottom of it, with more tentacles than eyes, and more teeth to ever dare count. She instead nodded, brushed the hair out of your eyes and promised you, one day, she would take you to the beach.

It isn’t quite what you expect it to be.

Toes buried in the sand, eyes watching as the tide rolls in only to roll back out. Unforgiving heat burning away at your corneas, the subtle blush of salt in the air. The constant rise and fall of waves collapsing into one another, the overwhelming loneliness that settles in as you realise it is only you here, no sight of your mother, her bones now long gone and buried beneath the walls of Winterfell alongside your father.

The dream of a child is wasted on the pitiful adult.

“Typically, people choose to bathe in the sea, not stare at it from the shore,” a voice calls on you from behind.

Across the beach, the prince strides, kicking up a storm of sand in his wake. A whole four days have come and gone since his arrival upon dragon’s back and, still, he has made no accommodations to his attire, the ever-present shades of Targaryen black and Hightower green sitting snug along his limbs. Without a doubt, the clothing of his house is out of place in this garden of blooming colour, yet the thought of him wearing anything but his leathers would be wrong. It wouldn’t be Aemond.

“I find I much prefer the view from here,” you remark, letting your eyes wander as far down as the length of his torso before you’re forcing them to look onward, back to the constant flow of the water. Something magnetic seems to tug at your soul, willing your feet to shuffle two steps closer to his incoming figure, drawn to close the space between. You dig your heels in the sand and will no further movement from yourself. “This is the first time I’ve stood upon a beach like this. It is… not what I’d expected. I feel no siren’s call towards the sea, no desire to soak myself within its merciless waters, no matter how tranquil and forgiving it may seem.”

The sun hovers low on the horizon, a hair’s breadth away from sinking beneath the line that separates sky from sea and taking with it what remains of the day, plundering the world into the darkness of night. There is a part of you that knows you should find your way back out of the alcove, through the rocky tunnel that feeds straight from the Martell’s summer home out onto the sandy beach, the call for supper soon encroaching on you and demanding your presence. 

But if to know is to care, then perhaps you are not so aware of what mannerly duties are expected of you, for you harbour no desire to attempt any movement that even dares remove you from the one-eyed prince’s presence. For too long, you’ve waited to be in it. 

“Surely you cannot truly claim to prefer standing here, if you do not yet know what it means to let the sea wash over you,” it’s hard to resist temptation, your eyes cast upon him once more. The same well-kept hair, the same brown patch covering his tarnished eye, the same ever-present pout upon his perfectly bowed lips — his time at Dragonstone has changed little of him. You wonder if he notices the changes in you. The lonely spark in your eyes, the threat of an incoming frown line, the sorrow that has rained down over your once positive mind, dampening you into nothing but a mirror of duty, set to obey the status quo laid out by the queens who came before you. “Declaring favour without so much as attempting another option, is that not so similar to settling?”

“You fail to consider that perhaps I am afraid to take the plunge,” an answer you fire with far too much haste, a chord struck within you, a conspiratorial mind that digs for deeper meaning than what the prince offers at base level. “Treading into sea from land is no safer than flinging one’s self off the sails of any ship. I am the queen, after all. I cannot be so reckless as to risk getting caught within waves and ripped beneath the surface by unforeseen currents. I have no desires to meet the Drowned God. Not all of us may rely on the luxury of deserting upon a dragon's back at the first spark of danger.”

Silence settles in between you like fog.

There is a call to anger that brews deep within you, one that has endured far too many moons of being trampled down under the weight of your own exhaustion, freed alas by the crashing of waves and the heat of the sun. 

In the days following the prince’s departure from court, you’d grieved. First had come the sadness, nights spent weeping into the smell of your own sheets, arms curled around your own self as you bathed away whatever lingering touch of his remained on you. Tears gave way to desperation. You picked up a quill, put ink to paper, wrote out the words he’d not given you the time to say, only to falter when the time came to send it off to Dragonstone and, instead, choose to burn it in the flames of your chambers’ hearth.

For a moment, watching how the fire ate up your fragile pleadings for answers from the prince, you’d felt that first flicker of anger. A warm, inviting temptress, blooming in the guts of your body, whispering riddles in your ear of how the prince had no right to play you for a fool, to plunder you both down into the pits of seduction, only to disappear in the night, leaving you stranded with no way back.

As quickly as the feeling arose, you shut it out, choosing instead the easier, more acceptable approach: you denied his very existence. When his name was mentioned at the dinner table, you ducked your head down, kept your focus on stabbing at the next piece of food with your fork. When dragons flew above the skies, weaving through the towers of the Keep, you refused to glance up. With time, it all grew easier, new duties thrust upon you as you and Aegon embarked on your first royal progress throughout the Westerlands, and less hours spent trapped within the walls of the very home in which he’d fled from you. It became as though the Prince had never even existed, much less the complications that came along with him.

Yet now, standing face to face once more, that temptress has returned, an iron fist of anger clasped around your heart.

The prince dares to call your name, gently, as though he’s yet to feel the burn of your glare piercing through his skull.

“Eight moons since you left court and not once have you returned,” your tone has more bite than even you are used to. Words that possess fangs, sinking deep into the prince and drawing blood with one foul swoop. He, of course, doesn’t show this, face as stoic as it's ever been. That singular eye, however, can’t hide the truth, widening slightly and wavering in its powerful stare as your ire rips a wound right through him. “When your dragon flew overhead, I thought this was it, at last you were here to see me. That perhaps you had caught wind of my travels and were no longer capable of denying yourself the need to come to me. Yet four times the sun has risen and you have made no effort to seek me out, you barely glance my way as we break bread at the same table, and you cut through corners to avoid crossing paths with me throughout the palace walls. Now you call upon me, after all this time, with the intention of… What? Sharing false small talk? What a fool you must take me for.”

“My departure was nothing personal, you should not take such offence,” whether he intended it or not, his answer almost seems to goad you, tossing more oil into an already raging fire. The condescension, the thoughtlessness, the implications of his words, dismissing the rightful irritation his actions have brought upon you and denouncing them as naught more than the silly fancies of a self-obsessed mind. It reminds you of Aegon, demeaning you without sparing it so much as a second thought. “I had no other choice but to leave.”

It hits you like a bucket of ice water, tossed upon the raging anger, not enough to scare it away yet enough to tamper it down, have it willing to at least listen to what possible reasons the prince may have had, and condemn him from there onwards. So, you enquire, “why?”

“What grows— Grew between us was dangerous. Deadly. It was not safe within the Keep, knowing our paths would keep crossing and feelings would complica-”

“Then you shut them out!” A step you take forward, the stomp of your foot kicking sand upon your ankles. You wish to invade his space, get him uncomfortable with the tangible closeness of your bodies, united upon common ground and beneath turbulent skies, yet with little remains of the interest you once possessed for the one-eyed prince, diluted by his abandonment in court. “Whatever those feelings are, you push them down until they no longer make noise within you, and you try to feel something else, for someone else, and you move along.” Much to your chagrin, the prince is turning his back on you, literally this time, twisting on both feet and seemingly attempting to flee the field of fire. You can not grace him with such sanctuary, hand darting out and catching a steady grasp on his forearm. “You do not simply take off at dawn’s first light!”

“Do you not think I have tried?” Aemond turns too quickly for you to process, stumbling backwards only to remain caught by his own hands, blunt nails pinching into the skin of your wrists as he presses them tight against his chest, his face so close to your own, you could commence counting his every eyelash. The sound of his voice, a musical combination of exasperation and desperation, holds priority over your attention. “For moons I would keep my distance, keep myself at bay. Only to lay it all to waste, time and time again, at the first sign of you needing me. No one has ever-” The prince pulls in a deep breath, a subtle shake of his head as he lets it free. His eye slips shut, only to reopen and stare upon you once more with a false promise of calm. “I have tried to lay this to rest, do not rob me of this fact. But, you see, it is hard to make a scar out of a wound you keep reopening.”

“You speak as though it were not you who made the first cut!” Try as he might, his peaceful tone of voice can not sway you to relax, your frustration doubling as the words burst out of you, hand fighting its way out of his hold and jabbing a finger at his solid chest. “Or was it not you who welcomed himself into my bed? Was it not you who offered to be my tutor? Was it not you who held me close, only to keep your distance and act as though nothing happened for weeks to come afterwards? But at least then you were still present in court. I mean, you could not even grace me with goodbye. Would it truly be so bad, Aemond, to feel something? So bad that you had to cross sea and mountain just to escape it?”

“When that something is for my brother’s wife, yes.”

“Oh, as though he cares!”

“He does! He would! What is it that you do not understand, Lady Stark?” It is fortunate no others are present to witness the way you and the prince stand so close, nose to nose, chests heaving every breath as though they may be your last, voices raising louder with each exclaim you throw each other's way. “Aegon would have my head on a spike if he knew the thoughts of you it conjures.”

“That is not true. I would not allow him,” both of you know it is a meaningless mutter. You have no control over Aegon, you never have. That doesn’t stop you from denying truths, an attempt at filling both your minds with fallacies of a future. “We could find a way. We have to at least try rid ourselves of the troubles he causes-”

“What would you have me do, woman? Kill my own brother?”

“You are hardly the one to play outrage at the thought of killing your own kin,” you don’t mean to say it. You know this because, the moment you do, your stomach drops and there’s the fear that you may in fact spill your guts up any second now. A mind both stubborn and still ruled by an anger conceived in sadness, you give yourself no choice but to push onward with your cruelty, no chance to apologise or take it all back, and do the one thing you’ve wanted to do since the prince first strolled into the halls of the Martell home: throw yourself at his feet and beg he never leave again. “What is it the smallfolk call you? Ah, yes, Prince Aemond the Kinslayer.”

For a moment, time ceases to be and the world no longer moves.

The waves do not crash, the birds do not sing, the air does not reach your lungs. A background that fades to grey, until all that is in focus is Aemond and the disbelief you strike within him. It’s a gentle progression, like ink staining paper, the way his teeth grind under a clenched jaw, and the way his nose flares almost defensively as though he’s trying to make himself appear as big as possible, and the way his eye moves through shock to anger to nothing. Two steps back, a pause, followed by another step back the moment your feet dare move an inch closer. A deep breath followed by a huff of anger, before at last he speaks again and the world falls back into view, full focus, full motion.

“My sister sent me to fetch you,” over the horizon, the sun is nearly gone and, with it, it’s warmth. You feel a chill run down your spine, a first since you arrived in Dorne. “She awaits you in the nursery.”

The prince has already turned and began to stride back from whence he came before you can even put thought to word, feet frozen in the sand as the rift between you opens wider.

Aemond disappears.

An act he is growing familiar with, a complete removal in the middle of the night, flying off on his war beast. And while you do your best to avoid glancing at the empty seats around the breakfast table, and feign disinterest at the mention of his name as it is spoken, you come to learn it is not Dragonstone he has fled towards, and it is not a journey he made alone.

In the fallout of the attempt on Helaena’s life, Sunspear had remained desolate. Men and women armed with metal and spears the only souls to move within the home, with rat catchers and maids welcomed on every third day of the week to maintain the home's upkeep. Even those who inhabit the city had retreated to the mountains, homes abandoned in fears and whispers of another Dornish war on the horizon, a new enemy yet to be unmasked.

It is Qoren Martell that decides enough is enough. Mounted upon his trusted steed, backed by a flock of his most trusted advisors and fiercest swordsmen, and with the protection of a dragonlord patrolling from the skies, he returned at last to the seat of his house. A letter reached Helaena’s hands, a reassurance of her husband and her brother’s safe arrival, followed by a promise to ensure the safety of both her and her children, a husband's devotion to bringing punishment to whomever orchestrated such a cowardly attack.

You receive your own letter, too. Penned by Aegon, the parchment informs you of his own travels, accompanied by his mother, to the riverlands. A show of good faith, he calls it, an attempt to mend what fragile loyalty remains after Aemond’s fire-filled rampage. You can’t imagine it is so easily fixed, with their lands scorched beyond use and half the riverlords struck down dead amidst their support towards Rhaenyra’s claim. Before you can dwell too long on the ghosts of recent history, Aegon closes off his writings with a request. Perhaps, it is a demand.

I believe we are overdue a talk, wife. Upon your return from Dorne, I do hope that you will find time to at last discuss the shadow that looms over our union. In the meantime, enjoy what remains of your stay with my sister, I am sure your company during this frightening time is much appreciated. I hear my brother has at last flown from his nest on Dragonstone. Perhaps he has more interest than I give him credit for in keeping this family safe.

You have yet to respond.

Trust this: it is not from a lack of trying. You have sat before parchment, quill clasped in hand, more times you can recall, and attempted to construct an appropriate reply. The first carried a stench of guilt, an involuntary admittance to something the king has yet to even accuse you of. The second, third, and fourth edition had been a stream of consciousness, in which nothing made sense and the letters all crashed into one another, written with shaky hands. The truth of the matter is that you’re not entirely sure what is expected of you, what kind of reply is desired.

On one hand, you could assume his words are a warning. A scarlet letter, branding itself upon your skin. He may know of Aemond’s presence and, with it, the possible scenarios that may play out between you two, meaning he knows of what has already transpired between his wife and brother. On the other hand, Aegon’s request could be about something as simple as the need to both agree on a redesign of tapestries within the throne room. Meaning it could be nothing of importance, nor danger, nor threat.

It does not make your hand sit any steadier as you make yet another attempt at conjuring your response.

“The Triarchy?” Helaena’s voice will never fail to soothe an unnamed ailment within you, so soft and welcoming you hardly believe she was raised in the same home as someone as brash as your husband.

“Hmm,” or as him. He returned this morning, at an hour one would hardly call appropriate, the screech of a dragon flying overhead your wake-up call, half falling out of your bed in shock. “It seems they’ve come to claim more than they were offered. Apparently the events at the Gullet were more bloody than they were promised, and now the Stepstones are not a good enough reward to compensate for the nameless men they lost. One must wonder how they did not expect the presence of dragons in a feud between dragonlords.”

The Targaryen siblings sit at the opposite end of the communal balcony from you, a crystal table adorned with golds and bronzes between them and two cups of wine — Helena’s remains untouched, Aemond has reached for his thrice. The view ahead is one of tranquil beauty, where children are playing in the fountains, leaves are rustling in the wind, and a sleeping she-dragon is sighted over the stretch of the Gardens’ walls. You almost wish to tell them to take their chatter of warfare and betrayals elsewhere.

You opt, instead, to continue staring down at the page in front of you, no more than three words cursed out in ink.

My King husband.

“My husband has not returned,” Helaena remarks on what you’d silently noted. Not only his absence, but the entirety of the fleet of Dornishmen who departed by his side, too.

“He remains at the seat of his house, sister. The people of Dorne need to know their so-called prince has not abandoned the city to savages,” in the corner of your eye, you see him, sat with his back perfectly straight and his hair impeccably done, one arm outstretched upon the table in front of him, the other plucking a grape off a vine and delivering it past his pouting lips. The image of him, relaxed and confident, angers you more than it would typically, your wound still unlicked from the incident down at the beach. “In the meantime, I am to fly to the Stepstones and remind them of the dangers of making enemies with a dragon. Should these pirates dare not retreat, then myself and the Lord Martell will begin talking war strategies, deliver an attack so brutal, they’ve neither the will nor the ability to strike back.” Let the history books know that you do not mean to laugh. It simply escapes you, too quickly heard by the siblings before you can even dare hide it. “Am I amusing you, Lady Stark?”

Four eyes, focused solely on you. Six, truly, if you factor in the cupbearer who’s feigning minding her own business, the watering-can she hovers over a bush of nearby roses long ago emptied and free of any liquid. Helaena’s stare is one of curiosity, a million unspoken questions flashing behind them as she bares witness to the tense atmosphere between you and the prince. Aemond’s own gaze is a challenge, a novel of unfinished business, the sour tone with which your last interaction ended still very much present, even if he tries to hide it behind a snide smile.

“Apologies, good-brother, I do not mean offence,” it is tempting to cast your eyes down onto the still blank page before you, will yourself to continue on with your task at hand — giving response to the Targaryen man who you truly owe it to by marriage — but that would mean breaking the intense stare that exists between you and Aemond. That would mean defeat. “Please, continue as you were. Do not let me distract you.”

It seems he too has no desire to forfeit in this war of eyes. There’s a brief squeak that plays as he slides his chair back, the arm that rests upon the table now bent at the elbow and serving as support to his weight as his frame leans closer in your direction. The smile on his lips only grows, rousing a deeper shade of unease in you. “If you’ve something to add, I insist. You are the queen after all, are you not? Who better to comment on the wars that ravage our lands than you, a lady who has never tasted blood.”

It strikes you, hot as fire, strong as iron.

You know in which way he means it, that you’ve never drawn blood from another, never pressed blade into flesh, never drained the life out of a man’s eyes. True intentions don’t stop you from being thrust back into that room, on that night. The sound of rain crashing down on the city, the stench of the two men in your chambers, the taste of your own blood on your tongue. Fighting, screaming, crying. Pleading for your life, running through the halls of the Keep for someplace safe to hide, someplace the rats couldn’t find you.

“Very well, if you insist,” you manage, as you always do, to shove the memory behind, lock it back in the cage of Unwanted Trinkets. May it play out only in your sleeping mind, where no one can witness the weakness it casts over you. Besides, there are more pressing matters at hand currently, such as matching wits with the Crown Prince. “If you cut the head off the serpent, ten more will grow in its place.”

“Sister, your patterns of speech seem to have influenced Aegon’s lady wife,” Helaena meets his words with a gentle smile, one that doesn’t quite match the glazed over look in her eyes. “Speak plainly.”

“Apologies, I believed your skills were at a level to understand such a simple riddle.” A frown bends, momentarily, at the skin of the prince’s forehead, as the cupbearer chokes back a  snort of laughter. You would be lying if you said it doesn’t bring a sick kind of satisfaction, even if it’s immediately followed by a guilty kind of remorse, echoes of your true self, one who would never wish to place the handsome prince within such a public humiliation. “You are rushing into another war, after what will perhaps go down as the bloodiest one our lifetime will ever know. Have you considered that threatening them with the very cause of their ire is only bound to guarantee more backlash? Yes, there is a certain chance that you and Vhaghar will strike fear as you fly above. Maybe you will even burn a few pirates to make a point. But for every one you kill, countless more will take their place. Your viciousness will unite their armies.”

“Then how exactly do you suggest I answer those who would have my family killed? To those who would see our lands ravaged, and our women raped, and our men slain? Should we perhaps host a feast in their honour, open the gates to King’s Landing, lay down our swords and-”

“Give them what they want.”

“My sister’s head?”

“Repentance, apology. Tell them of your failings to protect them at the Gullet, mourn their losses. Mention how fortunate they were that at least the Lys fleet had not been sent into a bloody rampage,” you speak as though you have no reason to waiver in your idea. It is a testament to the years you’ve endured within the Keep, catching the tail-ends of conversations amidst the Council, and attempting to soothe Aegon’s insecurity driven rants of his lacking position among all those who would advise him. It had been your own duty, as his wife, to hold your tongue and speak no part of your mind, serving as nothing but a vessel of agreement to his own warped ideals on how his kingdom should be run. But Aegon is not here and the prince truly had insisted you speak. “Once you’ve made yourself the remorseful council, you must hire an assassin. There are plenty of them within the Free Cities. Whispers sing of tensions brewing amongst Tyrosh and Myr, the wives of their fallen men claim Sharako Lohar led them to their deaths. A Tyroshi killing a Myrish holds more threat to their cause than the great Prince Aemond Targaryen mounted upon his dragon. It will divide them, long enough for you to rinse your hands and let the infighting begin. They’ll be too busy killing one another to unite forces against you.”

Echoes of the children’s laughter fills the air. Glancing through the marble railing, you spy a few raven haired babes — cousins to Helaena’s own — scuttle around in the waters, splashing any who dares step in their line of sight. It carries a certain innocence, one you fear the day they lose.

The creak of leather, a crack of palm striking palm. Aemond sits further back in his chair, smirking as he lets his clapping come to a slow stop. “My my, with such advice, I do wonder why my brother has you here, instead of seated at his council.”

His words do not strike you as earnest, a syrupy kind of distaste laced throughout them. You meet him with a reinforced amicability, doe eyes and sweet mouth. “The King believes it is of more priority that I be here.”

“How curious,” what you wouldn’t give to wipe that smug look off of his face.  “Surely not because of Helaena’s attack. That happened days after you already set off.”

“You speak the truth, good-brother. The ravens upon Dragonstone must truly be put to work for you to be so clued in on my royal plans.” Let it be his turn, you think, to wear the consequence of his own embarrassment upon his face, a rosy tint creeping over the tips of his ears and a hitch in his otherwise calm breathing. “If you must know, the King sent me here to visit my niece and nephew. He believes time with your sister’s children will serve me well. An old folk tale has the maester convinced there is correlation between the presence of children and a woman’s fertility,” you seem to strike a chord within him, for the composure cracks a second time, long enough to let a chortle break through. “Am I amusing you, Prince Aemond?”

It feels good to throw back his own words in his face. So good, in fact, you feel a throb between your legs, a warmth buried only beneath a thin layer of pale cotton. Helaena at last takes a hold of her wine, swallowing down two heavy cups. There is trouble upon her face, one that almost makes you regret the conflict that plays out between her brother and you. As though she senses your eyes on her, she meets your gaze and shakes her head slowly, mouthing a series of words you can’t decipher.

“Apologies, Lady Stark,” Aemond, none the wiser, steals you back over to his side of the table, a fresh layer of amusement painted over his features. “I just find it curious that my brother sends you here, yet there is no sight of him. Forgive me if I am wrong, but don't both the man and woman have to be fertile if they wish to conceive a child?”

For a moment, there is only panic.

Panic that he knows of the private dwellings between yourself and the maester. Panic that he’s read through the lines, with that sharp mind of his, and joined the dots on why your marriage to Aegon is yet to prove fruitful. Panic that he knows of the conspiracies you yourself have yet to even pose against the King, the questions of his fertility disputed only between you, the maester, and your reflection.

You can not let him steal your leverage, not when it is one you’ve clutched so dearly against your chest, all in anticipation for the right moment to present it to Aegon.

The fear must not be too loud, too noticeable, and so you right yourself, reassure yourself that his words are no more the product of a sharp tongue aiming to cut, not of a mind meaning to threaten.

Gathering your paper and your ink, you rise from your seat at your own table and give the Targaryen pair a curt nod, dismissing yourself before you may linger too long on the true intentions of Aemond’s questioning of the King’s fertility.

“The Crown commands my King husband to deal with more pressing matters. It is a burden you should feel lucky you will never bare, Prince Aemond.”

Days pass with little of note.

The monotonous routine you’ve carved within the Water Gardens brings far more joy than the one you live, day in and day out, within the Keep. You do not tire of it so easily, and instead find beauty in the tranquillity, and comfort in the quiet rustling of the household. Qoren and his men remain absent, and the skeleton crew of guards that stay behind keep mostly to themselves, polite yet brief greetings exchanged when paths cross within the walls. Vhagar and her rider also hang nearby, a threat large enough you almost think the need for guards unnecessary. The Martell women keep close quarters, mothers and grandmothers who watch over their blooming children, indulging in their cups and sharing tales from their marital lives the women of the court would no doubt turn their noses up at. They have no shame, and it is frequent they encourage you and Helaena to do the same.

“We are the true keepers of power in our houses. We are the ones who give life through our cunts.”

You have yet to convince yourself this isn’t all part of a dream. A paradise, hidden amidst deserts of sand, where women claim the power of the land, and there is no reason to live if not to graze on freshly picked fruit and sleep the day away under the shades of palm trees. For some reason or another, you find yourself thinking of your good-mother, Alicent, and how deeply she deserves a life like this, free to rest alongside her darling daughter, away from the stresses of the courts, her temperamental sons, and her oligarch father.

The babe in your arms lets out a gentle coo.

At last he’s fallen asleep, no more tears running down his cheeks nor snot bubbling out of his nose. Wiped clean, tear free, he nestles easily into the arms of his aunt, comfort so aplenty his eyes threaten to fall into sleep with every blink he takes, those striking lilac eyes stubborn in their endeavour to look upon you a little longer.

You’d found him crying in his cot as you entered the nursery and had been quick to aid his poor wet-nurse, teats exposed and struggling to get the protesting child to drink. She, too, herself wore fallen tears, a great relief coming over her face as you gently took the babe out of her arms and insisted she go rest. Not a moment too soon, she departed out the room, leaving you alone with your nephew.

Of both of Helaena’s children, you’ve yet to spend much time with him. Moons old, he clings closely to his mother and his wet-nurse. His father too, when he sits present. He is a sweet boy, quick to smile at the simplest of things. The dark of his hair clashes against the blonde of his sister’s, and yet they both make up the perfect mix of their parents. The pair of them are everything your good-sister deserves.

Sinking into a rocking chair, you let the babe snuggle himself against your chest, the picture of innocence held safely in your hands. You peel one away from cradling him, too tempted to ignore your desire to run your pointer finger over the gentle slope of his button nose. The boy’s eyes slip shut a few moments, and you nearly believe you’ve succeeded, until they spring back open and he stretches a stubby arm out to capture your finger in his mighty claps, his entire fist covering no more than one of your knuckles. All the while, he’s smiling up at you, speaking in a language of coos you’ll never understand.

It doesn’t stop you from giggling, enamoured by his very existence as you let your feet begin to rock the seat ever so softly.

“You are a natural,” the prince’s voice is an intrusion that nearly leaves you jumping out of your bones. Dressed in his riding leathers, armed with his swords, he is every piece of the Aemond you have always known. And, yet, somehow he feels distant, different, changed. For a moment, you nearly convince yourself there is a longing in his eye, only to quickly remind yourself of the fraction that stands between you, a rift that remains divided, much as it may pain you. “I imagine you must be desperate for motherhood.”

“I must,” you agree, because that is what is expected of you. Then you recall you are far from the Keep, and it’s master of whispers, and circle of spies, free to speak upon a doubt you’ve never shared. It isn’t hard to convince yourself it holds no meaning that it is him you choose to share it with, he is merely the fool unlucky enough to have presented you with the opportunity to talk. “Must I? In truth, it scares me.”

A weight lifts off your shoulders, the deep breath that follows easier to achieve than ever before. A lady should only ever dream of motherhood, not cower from it. Yet, you find no judgement in the prince, only silence, the kind that implores you to continue speaking your mind.

“This fear, it is not for myself, but for any child I may have. Aegon, he is… a difficult man but I often wonder how much that crown upon his head is to blame. I ask myself, would he have turned out different, were he not groomed to sit upon that cursed throne? I do not want to bring a child into a world where it is no more than a chess-piece. To live a life where its only purpose is to fulfil the role of heir and wait around for its father to either die or grow so weak he must renounce his crown,” like river to sea, the fear flows out of you, spilling itself down your entire being, a cold chill striking at your heart. The boy in your arms tightens his hold upon your finger and attempts to pull it towards his gaping mouth. You try to picture the conqueror’s crown — your husband’s crow — upon its head, and grow fearsome at the image of it encased around the babe’s neck, his tiny face turned black and blue under the choke it holds him in. A blink of the eye and the babe is all rosy cheeks and golden skin once more, smiling with success as he suckles at the tip of your finger. “And that is only the curse of the eldest. I do not even wish to begin thinking of what would come to be of any other child I birthed, the spare to the Iron Throne, the hatred they’d cast my way for not having birthed them first. I do not want it, any of it. I do not want my children to experience the same childhood as Aegon and you-”

You feel more than you hear the way Aemond flinches at your choice of words. Where days ago you thrived in poking metaphorical needles at his frayed edges, now you wish you could swallow the words back in and erase them from existence. Dead and buried lays the anger that had so consumed you, the ghost it leaves behind wearing the name of acceptance.

The prince had claimed no other choice but to leave the Keep and, your own agreement to the side, you believed him.

“It was not so bad,” his voice comes out in that breathy tone you’ve come to know over the years, a feat he cannot help when emotion wells too high within him and clogs up the space in his throat. He moves in search of where you sit, a repeated clink ringing as the hilt of his sword meets the buckle on his green, leather jerkin with every step he takes. “There were good moments. A few with our father, most with our mother.” When Aemond at last stands before you, that singular eye glances down at how you never falter in your rocking of the child. The babe takes interest in him, too, sacrificing the grip on your finger to stretch out in search of some piece of the prince. “Your children will not know a childhood of my kind. They will be loved, nurtured, protected.”

“You speak as though it is a law, not simply a hope,” you say, a furrow brandishing itself across your brows as your eyes flick up to meet his face, momentarily, before quickly glancing back down to where the prince lays his hand out for his nephew to take, a delighted laugh shaking out of Helaena’s boy. “How can you be so certain?”

With his free hand, the prince bridges the gap between you, the warmth of his palm finding rest upon the side of your face, robbing you of any sight but his well-angled, sharply-defined features. “Because they will have you as a mother, Lady Stark,” it is barely a whisper, yet the heartbreak laced within it leaves behind a hole in your chest, vacant and bleeding. The pad of his thumb smooths over your cheek slowly, as though it moves at a will not controlled by the prince, pure instinct commanding it to comfort, to soothe. It would be easy, you think, to slip your eyes shut and sink into a fantasy where this is your life. A babe in your arms, Aemond at your side, that fluttery feeling in your chest swelling so large, it threatens to explode out of you. But the prince clears his throat and you are back in the real world, your nephew in your arms, your good-brother standing too close. “You must allow me to apolo-”

“Brother!” At the intrusion of Helaena’s voice, both of you jump back, his hand ripped from your cheek and the babe’s grip gone from his fingers. Your good-sister seems none the wiser to the scene played out before her, an earnest joy upon her face and her daughter’s legs dangling from where she sits propped on her mother’s hips.  “I did not think I’d find you here.”

It feels like an accusation, an imaginaged query that bites and snarls at your mind, threatening to strike you if you do not lay all your sins at her feet. Reminiscent of Aegon’s ominous letter, paranoia makes home once more within your bones.

The prince, on the other hand, appears as composed as ever. A memory plays on in your mind. His chamber walls, his taste fresh on your tongue, his mother stood across the room. Even then, inches away from being caught, he’d not even broken a sweat.

“I came only to announce my leave,” words you loathe to hear.  “Your husband and I have some matters to converse, arranging a meeting with the Triarchy being one of many.”

Helaena seems relit by a flame of excitement as she shuffles over to a nearby table, rifling through the many papers strewn across it, scribbles of figures and etchings of jumbled words stained on them. The parchment she settles on seems to be the only one folded over neatly, not a single wrinkle to be found as she holds it out towards her brother. “Please, see that this reaches my husband!”

He can only nod in agreement, slender fingers plucking the parchment from her own before tucking it safely within an inner-pocket of his jerkin. Though his back is facing you and his attention remains on his dear sister, the words that follow out his mouth feel as though they’re meant for your ears only. “I will return in five days.”

Your eyes seem to linger on the door long after he’s walked out of it, Helaena talking away in your ear while a desire to sleep what remains of the day away takes root within you.

The prince turns out to be a liar.

Five agonising days come and go, each more tortuous than the last. The hours seem to crawl, slower than Helaena’s newborn, and the greatest curse known to woman befalls you, a stain of red between your thighs and an agonising pain stabbing at your abdomen. At the very least, you try to console yourself, it falls here, under sun and sand, and not in the stone cold walls of the Keep. You won’t have to face Aegon’s snide comments as you announce the repeated failing of your couplings, just this once.

A sixth day dawns, and no sign of a prince nor a dragon shadows over you. A fact you pretend not to notice, a promise of disinterest upon your face as Helaena comments on her brother’s absence seven days after his departure.

On the eighth day, a letter arrives, your name branded upon it. It carries word from your brother. One part heartbreak, the other part intent on mending it. The death of your Septa, taken in her sleep as peacefully as many may only dream of, and the birth of a new Stark. His only daughter, seven years her brother’s junior and, yet, already the apple of his eye. Cregan writes of how the instant he held her in his arms, he was brought back to the first time he’d held you as a babe, all squirming limbs and sniffling tears, and thought there was no better name for such a child than your own, in honour of her Queen aunt.

The news makes your heart ache, a longing for a home that no longer exists — at least not in the way you remember it — that crashes over you and spills out of you, tears staining your cheeks as you lay restless in your bed, the ceiling above blurred by your own sorrow. You should be there, in Winterfell, warmed by furs and surrounded by family. True family, not the disfigured image of it the Targaryen house tries to uphold.

Were your father alive, you would be where the wolves belong. In the north, wife to a Karstark, or a Mormont, or any other house that bears its sigil and bends the knee to the Warden of the North. You no doubt would be happy, whether there be love in your marriage or not, with a handful of children to occupy your time and your childhood home no more than a few days ride away at all times. Perhaps you would live an entire life never casting sight upon the King, or the Crown Prince. They’d be only names in a history book, royalty out of reach. Would life have been easier this way?

A door slams.

A fact you’d dare not take note of, were it not for the late hour, the outside world already enveloped by darkness hours before. You rise slowly from the mattress, the sheets pool around the naked skin of your waist. Sitting patiently, you await another disturbance to the quiet, pray for something familiar, like the gentle pitter patter of mischievous children running down halls, or Helaena’s voice calling out your name, awaiting entrance to your chambers. It wouldn’t be the first of her midnight visits, a comfort you’ve both come to seek in each other when the night is dark, and the palace is silent, and no greater time exists to exchange laughter like the young girls you’d both wished to have been, free of duty, free of pressure, free to live.

But there’s no calling of your name this evening, and so you settle with the silence that remains. With no sleep on the horizon, and no sign of Helaena’s company, you decide you must at least try to induce your own rest. Covering your naked skin with a dress that lays discarded at your bedside, you inch your way over to the unlit hearth and work at starting up a fire. When a spark lights and the crimson flames begin to dance among themselves, you secure a pot of water over it. Your mother always swore there was nothing that could not be fixed with the sacred remedy of her herbal tea, not even insomnia. And though you’ve not quite her mother’s touch, you’d sat by her side plenty a times as a child to give the recipe a try.

Another bang rings out.

Your heart seems to still, as do your hands. With only a blink of the eye, your head fills with visions of a massacre. An intruder, who’s sat idly by and waited until now, when only women, children and a handful of guards inhabit the home, to enact their butchering. Perhaps it is an opportunistic attack, a nameless nobody, with no real idea who sits inside the lavish walls of the Gardens, stumbling across the residency and deciding to try their luck at breaching the unguarded walls. The more horrors you envision, the louder the voice in your head grows as it commands you to move, take action. At odds with your own self, your body seems to move on account of some other force, rushing over to the chamber’s vanity. Searching for something to do harm with, you find it in the shape of a letter opener. Thin, delicate yet razor sharp, a silver knife you clutch within your palm.

The chamber door creaks as you open it, much to your dismay. You pause, awaiting a terrible discovery from someone, faceless among the shadows of darkness. There is only silence, again, until another noise plays out.

The sound is human, you have no doubt, a sharp inhale or a pained hiss between clenched teeth. Your fingers curl tighter around your weapon of choice. The sound repeats and plays out longer than the last. Your eyes flicker to a door. A little down the hall from your own, it sits ajar, a light within it bleeds out into the darkness. Another hiss sings out into the night through the crack between the door and its frame.

You steal your breath, tread only on the tips of your feet. Inch closer, and closer, and closer to the door. With your free hand grasping at the handle, the other gripping even tighter at the envelope opener, you pull the door open and raise your weapon, preparing to at last strike the danger, the threat, the intruder, the… “Aemond?”

The prince stands across the room, his back facing you. A looking glass before him, the image he reflects within it is fickle, forever morphing under the flickering light of several low burning candles. If not for the signature starlight silver tresses, he’d be scarcely recognisable.

“My apologies,” at the sound of his familiar voice, you feel your shoulders slouch and your nails retract out of the skin of your palm as the grip on your weapon loosens, your hand lowering back down to your side. There is no intruder, no attacker, no danger. There is only Aemond, a man who only steals away any fear of harm you may possess. Perhaps that is why it is easy to let yourself give into the temptation to inch closer into the chamber, even if he gives you no leave to do so. The two steps you take announce themselves with an echo. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“It has been nine days,” it is a pathetic proclamation made in desperation, yet it is spoken all the same, a tremble in your voice that matches the one in your chest.

The prince makes no move to face you, his focus stuck on the mirror in front of him. You squint your eyes, and try to make sense of the image he paints in his reflection, but it is a useless action. What you do manage to see is the lack of a leather strap fastened around the back of his head. The eyepatch sits disregarded by his feet, as though ripped off with haste.

“I had duties to attend in King’s Landing,” his hands ball into fists as your stomach twists with knots. The movement calls upon your attention and only then do you notice it, the stain of blood upon his fingers. “My mother requested my presence.” 

It is unnerving to picture him in the Keep, the threat of Aegon’s letter still weighing heavy on your mind. Had the two ran into each other, crossed paths within a hall? Is that why blood now drips from between his knuckles onto the cold floor below? Impossible, you try to reason with your own mind, for surely Aegon would not let him walk away with his life if he knew of your betrayal. But perhaps it is the King who met a certain fate and the blood on the prince’s skin belongs to him. Aemond has always been more skilled in battle, after all. The remnants of dinner turn in your stomach as bile swells up the canal of your throat, an acidic burn that makes a nest for itself at the back of your mouth.

“Are you hurt?” Another hiss slips past his teeth as you question his state, as if the gods mean to rob him of any right to deny it.

“The hour is late, Lady Stark,” the fist squeezes tighter by his side, a second drop of blood splashing to the floor. You step closer and search for a better view, the face in the mirror still obscured. “Return to your chambers.”

“Aemond,” you give a silent prayer, inching closer, eyes stuck on the width of his leather-clad back. The stench of dragon still reeks off them. He must have just arrived. You reach a hand out, so close to touching him, yet far enough that you feel no reprieve of feeling the man you’ve long now missed. “My prince, something brings you pain. Let me help you-”

“Do not come any closer.”

“You cannot expect me to rest, knowing you are injured!”

“It is for your own good,” the mirror gives away his frown and how it shadows over the rest of his face, a mass of darkness haloed by burning light. Were the timing more suited, you’d take note of how angelic the image is, one of pure divinity, a man so infused with beauty, the Gods grant you no grace to gaze upon him. A third drop of blood hits the floor, though this one does not fall from his hand. “This is not a sight suitable for a lady.”

“Gods be good! Aemond, be quiet,” you say, louder than you intended. In a fear of waking anybody else, you clear your throat and compose your nerves. “You do not get to decide what sights are suitable for me. I do.”

By some miracle, the prince puts no effort into halting you from twisting him around to face you. At the curl of your fingers around his forearm, he’s already turning into your touch, feet smudging the red blood across the floor as they move to point towards you. Once your eyes dance up the length of him, scanning for the first sign of a bleeding wound, and settle upon his face, you come to realise what reaction he expects of you.

A disgusted grimace, or a terrified scream, or a heartless laugh. Whatever it is the prince sits awaiting, he does not receive it. You do not even flinch as you take in the sight of his left eye, no leather to hide it, no sapphire that fills it. An empty socket, marred by scar tissue, a bleeding gash reopened atop his eyebrow. A river made of pain and the essence of his life, that flows down the length of his face and drips off the razor sharp edge of his jaw.

“I warned you,” the prince speaks with false pride, one you do not fail to see right through, even as his intact eye stares you down in a challenge, daring you to give him the disgust he thinks he deserves.

“Come,” you plead instead, hand slipping down to grip at his wrist. “Let me see you in a better light.”

He gives no fight against you as you begin to lead him away from the looking glass, grip tightening and pulling further away as you watch him attempt to grasp at the sapphire sphere he leaves behind. As the two of you slip through the chamber doorway, out into the dark hall, your sweating palm loses its hold on the leather. The prince’s hand catches yours, denying it retrieval back down to your side, an effortless lacing of fingers that serves only to make your journey all that easier, pulling him along behind you, hand in hand, to your chambers.

“Sit,” a poor attempt at commanding, finger pointing over at the chair that lives in front of your vanity. The prince makes no move towards it, hand gripping firmly at your own as you go to move away, eyeing the steaming pot atop your hearth. “Sit.”

He listens, at last, and you are free to move onwards with your goals, lighting a few more candles within the chambers before dashing over to collect the warmed water. By the vanity, the prince sits, head tipped to the ground, those blonde locks curtaining him out of sight as you make your way over. Delicate with each movement, you rest the boiled pot atop the dresser and grab at the first piece of fabric you can find. Your own smallclothes, freshly washed and folded only hours ago. 

The slosh of water within the pot as you submerge the fabric seems to snap him out of his daze, regaining his voice if only to speak words you’ve already grown tired of hearing.“This fuss is not necess-”

“Hush now,” the stubborn voice within you can not allow him to finish his sentence. Busy hands ring the soaked smallclothes. Most droplets of water rain back into the pot, while a few dance their own paths down your forearms. “What happened?”

“I insist, Lady Stark.”

“As do I,” cloth meets skin at last, a gentle swipe over the length of the prince’s jaw. Briefly, you feel the weight of the prince’s stare upon you, only for it to return to the floor the instant you try to catch it with your eyes.

You drag the linen over his skin a second time, inching a little further up. There’s a horrible tug at your heart as you smell that metallic haze blood carries. The pain only grows more intense as you watch how quickly harsh red makes home for itself in soft linen, a stain that promises to remain forever engraved.

In new light, the brightness that envelops your chambers, you’re given a better view of the damage he occults beneath that eyepatch. Some may call it a warrior's mark, a sacrifice given in exchange for the glory of claiming the last of the Conquerors’ dragons, but all you see is a blade that ripped out a child’s eye.

You do not feel disgust, not even an ounce. The gouge is a gruesome sight, that no one can deny, yet you feel oddly drawn to it. It is as though you at last see Prince Aemond, instead of the One-Eyed Prince that so fearsomely struts his way through the realm. Vulnerable, naked, whole, beautiful. Never have you felt so drawn to reach for him, draw him closer.

“It appears worse than it truly is,” at last the prince answers. “It is a flight wound. The air over Dorne is riddled with sand, it must have tore at some of the scarring.”

“Does it happen often?” You inch a little closer, till his knee bumps against your leg, and tell yourself it’s to get a better view, keep your hand more steady as it swipes further up his face, washing away at the blood upon it.

“Not so much, anymore,” you dunk the makeshift rag back into the water, the bile burning harsher at your throat as you watch how the crimson hue washes out into the clear of the bowl. You ring it out, soak it once more, only to ring it out again before you deliver it back to his face, the pathway of blood diminished to naught but the reopened skin of his brow. “Long flights are always unpredictable. Some I fair just fine, others I dismount to find my sapphire causes me pain, the skin beneath dried by the cold sky.”

The prince grimaces as you drag the smallclothes over the tear in his face, yet he dismisses your apology, reassures you that he is fine. You pretend you believe him, even if the frown remains indented upon his forehead as you finish cleaning the wound. 

With the promise of being gentle, and a hand pressed against your own heart as you vouch for your skills with the needle and your experience at dressing your brother’s wounds, the prince agrees to let you thread his skin shut. You’re quick to heat a needle under flame, and even quicker to hastily rip a loose thread off one of the untouched gowns in your trunk, returning to the vanity with the speed of a dragon’s wings.

As if hearing your thoughts, a rumbled screech echoes out into the night, just past the gates of the Martell home. You’ve half the mind to think it is Vhagar voicing her rider’s pain on behalf of him, as he sits quiet while you pierce the needle into him at last.

“It is unfair,” you mutter, much before you can stop yourself, as you thread a second loop, watching how the skin reunites with skin once more. “What happened to you, Aemond.”

“It made me the man I am today,” Rehearsed, empty of feeling, you wonder how used to those words the man has grown. Does he truly believe himself? “I am better for it.”

“I’m sorry,” a third loop, and then a fourth. The dark thread stands out against the pale of his flesh, you’re almost certain it will be visible even with the cover of his eyepatch. “For what I said to you on the beach. I was unnecessarily cruel.”

“You owe no apology, most certainly not to me,” a pained hiss flies out of him as you stab a little too harshly, a hand grips around the back of your thigh, as if to stabilise your shaking limbs. It carries the opposite effect, the tremble creeping up to reach your fingertips, the needle threatening to fall under your own nerves. Still, the prince does not verbalise his pain, never tells you to stop. The hand upon your clothed thigh squeezes a single pulse, a quiet command to continue stitching his brow. “You spoke only the truth, I have slayed my own kin,” his voice infects the room with an emotionless air, a murder stated as simply as a fact bringing a chill down your spine. You loop a fifth and final stitch. “It is I who owe you an apology. I should not have taken advantage of you that evening, in my chambers. Nor on the boat, nor your own chambers before that. Neither of us were acting in our right minds.”

“Take advantage of me? You speak such nonsense,” you do not like the way his eye returns to looking past you, nor the emptiness in his voice. “Do you ever… Regret it?” You ask, before you realise you are not quite ready for his answer, nor willing to have what remains of the illusion between you shattered. You cannot bear to be just another warm body to a second Targaryen man, and so you scramble to redirect the question. “Storm’s End, I mean.”

“No.” Heavy, powerful, punctuated. Aemond does not hesitate, even for a moment, to negate it. Still, his gaze will not meet your own. “Given the chance, I’d do it all the very same.”

“I do not believe you,” you speak, only after silence tries to creep its way back between you. The emptiness of your palm calls for the heat of his skin. You ball your hand into a fist, resist the urge to let it find rest upon the scarred side of his face. “You are not so heartless.”

“You do not know me as well as you think, Lady Stark.”

“That is of no cause of my own. I am here, idle and waiting, wishing to know more of you,” denial is futile, your hand makes its own way onto his face, forcing his focus back onto you.  "You are not the heartless monster of some bedtime story, Aemond,” you can only pray to the Seven he can hear how much you mean it. The thumb that rests against his cheek moves absent-midedly, a soothing rhythm against the soft of his skin. “No matter how much you may try to play the part, you feel. There’s no inch of you that scares me, it is fruitless to even try. I may not know you, but I see you. All of you. Man, myth, and heart.”

The wood that burns in the hearth cracks.

The birds outside the window flap their wings.

The dragon by the gates screeches.

But no sound follows from the prince.

There is only his eye, set on you and unblinking, frozen with a quiet that unnerves you. For an instant, you fear you’ve angered him. Struck a chord, made him feel weak. Played so far into your fantasies that you have cast a false identity onto him and, now, he means only to show just how wrong you are, just how little you truly see of him.

He rises out of the seat as slow as the sun does over the horizon, long limbs that stretch to stand tall and stable, and threaten to cast a shadow over even the largest of men. Your hand slips from his cheek and you take a cautious step back, an apology on the tip of your tongue.

An apology you don’t get to speak, as the prince envelops your lips with his own.

Startled, you cry out against his mouth, and it is enough to send him stumbling his own step back, eye wide with shock and his chest heaving with deep breaths.

“Lady Stark,” he starts, only a whisper of that earlier false confidence remains. “I am sor-”

“Shut up,” you don’t let him finish. Can’t let him finish, surging towards him and dragging his mouth to meet your own once more.

It is everything a younger version of yourself had thought a kiss would be.

Hands that seek the warmth of skin, lips that move with the grace of water. The two of you melt into each other, a burning desire that’s been left too long unattended at last burst into raging fires.

His arms wrap around your waist, as easily as yours grapple at his shoulders, frantic in their aim to pull him closer. His lips are soft, pink rosebuds that mean no harm as they attempt to consume you whole, his tongue a viper, striking hot venom with each lave it delivers.

There is no time for thinking. Of the dangers, and the possibilities, and the downright wrongness of your actions. Of the courts, and the spiders, and the King. Of the blood ties, and the marital vows, and the eyes of the Seven looking down. There is only Aemond, strong, and sweet, and present, pressed against you and, still, begging for less distance as he stumbles forward into you, your own feet making new space for him as you shuffle idly backwards.

Lungs that scream for air, lips that struggle to part. You make the first move, a hand on his cheek as you turn your face. His lips chase your own through the darkness of closed eyes, delivering a pleading of three pecks upon them before, at last, he gives you respite.

For a moment, there is only the repeated intake of air and heart beats that run off with the wind, forever to be lost to the wild.

“Being near you, all these days,” there’s an edge to his voice, a rasp he whispers over and stumbles on. The press of his forehead into your own, as mouths rest inches apart, lips that brush against one another as the prince continues to speak. “Watching you sweat under the sun, and care for the children,” the hands upon your body grab at the thin fabric of your dress, balling it into fists that squeeze and tug at orange cotton. “And move in these pathetic excuses for dresses,” he speaks with the desperation you feel, a warmth stirring in your loins as Aemond — consciously or not — slowly inches the hem of the dress further up your calf. “You do not understand the torment it has brought me to keep myself at bay.”

As though having spoken all he deems necessary, the prince’s kiss returns to you. For only a moment, it lingers on your lips before his focus redirects itself elsewhere and he’s chasing a pathway only he can see down the side of your jaw, his lips running off with his own kisses.

“Yet you instead chose to spend all that time at my neck,” you somehow find the ability to think, even as he melts your mind like a dragon’s breath melts armour, one clear swoop and you are at his mercy, hand tangled amidst the hair at the back of his head and holding him secure in his place against you.

Aemond smirks against your skin, trailing kisses over the expanse of your throat and dragging his lips up to the shell of your ear, the perfect excuse to whisper into it how, “some would say I am more at your neck now than I have ever been, Lady Stark.”

There is a collision between where his mouth lies and where his hands wander that leads to a peaceful departure of his kisses, a far more pressing matter at hand: undressing you. The prince seems to do so without giving it much thought, only for the gravity of his action to strike him, ice cold water and melted iron, as he takes in the sight of you, bare as the day you were brought into the world.

It does not matter that he lacks an eye, for the one he possesses carries the weight of a thousand men’s stares. A slow, agonising pause falls over his frantic need, as the prince falls into a trance, tracing over what feels to be every bump and every blemish that marks and shapes your body.

Never have you felt so exposed, not even the harrowing events of your bedding ceremony dare compare. You mean to find modesty, fruitless as it may seem, crossing one leg over the other while your arms do the same over your breasts. He can’t let that be, his own hands shooting out to gently grasp at your wrists and tug at them. Like the prince let you guide him to your chambers, you let him bare you to his eyes once more as your hands fall back to your side.

The intense stare continues, as does the silence, but, alas, he puts his skin to yours once more, a single finger that dances over the expanse of your clavicle, a teasing waltz that dips slowly between the valley of your breasts only to rise again. It takes interest in your left breast, skimming over the swell of it and, as it reaches the nipple, a second finger joins the cause. Together, they clamp round the soft flesh, a gentle pinch that pulls at an invisible string connected to your cunt, the start of an itch that demands to be scratched.

“This is wrong,” Aemond whispers, as if the words are not even meant to reach your ears. 

“So wrong,” you can’t help but echo back. There is a shake in your breath you don’t expect.

“I should not be touching you,” yet he makes no attempt to stop touching you, feet inching closer and his forehead resting against your own. “Only hours ago, I broke bread at the same table as your husband.”

The weight of his gaze lands on your lips. You await the reunion of his mouth and your own, but it never comes. Instead, his head dips down and the very same lips he uses to scowl delicately envelope the peak of your right breast. His mouth is warm, his tongue is curious, and his teeth give a gentle nibble to your right breast, in tandem with the pinch of his fingers on your left breast.

“Aemond,” a futile plea of his name. Your body calls to him, the way it only does for the prince, a subconscious squeeze of your thighs bringing a sweet drop of relief in the desert of desire.

He forces himself off of you, a sign of desperation between his kiss-swollen lips, pink, and plump, and shining with the wet of his own mouth, a perfect match to the residue of saliva he has stained upon your breast. 

“Tell me to leave,” he demands, yet makes no attempt to flee as your hand clasps at the top buckle of his jerkin, nor as you undone it and move down to the second buckle. “Before I lose any modicum of composure I still possess.”

You do no such thing.

You do not even speak.

Both eyes glued to his one, you inch your way backwards blindly, until your legs hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back, unable to hold back a giggle as the mattress bounces you several times. The prince still stands a foot away, top buckles undone and the two that remain strain against the heaving of each breath that enters his chest.

“You stare too much, Prince One-Eye,” an unexplored part of you seems to take the reigns, a version of you that teases, and mocks, and feels no shame as you bend your legs at the knee, plant your feet flat against the bed, and slowly let your thighs part, baring your naked centre in a quiet offering. “Do you never tire of observing instead of participating?”

His footsteps echo, a slow approach towards the bed. He makes no sound, yet his face speaks a thousand words of longing, hunger, lust, all framed in a tightly bound brow, a pointed nose, sharply carved cheekbones, and lips that hover apart, drifting further from one another to make way for a rosy tongue that wets the lower lip. Like treacle slips down the tree or honey drips from its comb, the prince sinks slowly to his knees at the edge of the bed.

The image of a man at prayer, so buried in his worship that the caps of his knees bruise a pretty purple, made into a sin by the tugging at ankles, and the grabbing of naked thighs, and the hoisting of a single leg over a shoulder. He turns his face, closes his eye, and delivers a whisper of a kiss against the lower calf that rests upon him. It is a slow advance down into the well of madness, both the journey his lips make along your skin and the longing that it awakens in you, a heat that rises, and rises, and rises between your legs, melting away into a wetness of sin that dribbles its own path out the eye of your cunt and down the swell of your rump.

“Aemond,” it has become something more of a plea than a name. A call for something, anything, so long as it soothes your ache and laves your burning skin back to health, back to sanity. The prince protests with a tight squeeze around the meat of your thighs, his mouth paused above your knee. The eye reopens, blinks at you twice, before it shuts once more and he continues his descent down the length of you, growing closer to the apex of your legs with each fleeting kiss. 

When he strikes, he strikes hot. Like dragon’s breath, the prince’s mouth melts you beneath its kiss, open-mouthed upon the slickened lips of your cunt. Another kiss follows close behind as the prince continues a short journey higher, lips enveloping the hardened pearl that rests atop your centre. The leg on his shoulders jerks inwards, delivering a harsh kick of your heel against his back, yet Aemond barely seems to notice, too lost in the feast he sets himself between your legs.

He delves into you with reckless abandon, open mouth and curious tongue. They are a fearsome pair, who move over the length of your cunt with the grace of any great waltz. Lips pull the tongue in, and explore the pleasures of suckling at your pearl like a babe does its mothers teat. They descend further in their dance, twisting and twirling, parted lips and dipping tongue. You are rendered speechless, unable to speak much other than his Valyrian name and a cacophony of wanton moans, and shivered gasps, and back-arching whines, your head thrown back and your eyes feeling the need to shut. You cannot let the sight escape you, too far and too dark does the memory of the night in your chambers now live, more of a picture book than a motion play-by-play of the ways in which the prince had ravaged you between your thighs, the original sin of kin-by-law, kin by king. 

You’re barreling towards your own undoing, mouth barely finding time to breathe between each coo, and whimper, and cry it gifts the prince in honour of his efforts. Where he calls, you seem to follow, hips moving on their own accord to meet the breaching of his tongue between the warmth of your walls. He welcomes the movement, a groan of approval and the reopening of his eye, if only to stare at you intensely before returning his focus to what matters: delving in between your thighs.

“Ah,” he nods at your pitiful proclaim, and you swear you feel him draw out each letter of his own name upon your skin, branding you with his tongue and forsaking you to a life you already lead where the dragon prince is the only man to master the skill of pleasing you, of bringing you to a peak so thrilling it is hot white, burning, and blinding, and, unfortunately, fleeting, a beauty the gods gift you only a moment in time with, rather than the eternity you long for. 

With your good-brother’s tongue burrowed as deep as it may reach within your cunt, and his hands grasping your flailing legs tightly by the thigh, and his nose swiping back and forth at your pearl as your hips bend and rise to meet the strokes of his mouth, you at last take a tumble off the mountain of desire, rolling directly into a river of your own peak that stains the prince’s mouth. He answers it with open lips and delighted grunts, a gentleman who dares not leave a single drop of his prize go to waste.

It takes you time to regain your composure, and even longer to regain your breath, mind floating out your own head and drifting somewhere among the clouds, leaving the puddle of limbs that becomes your body. The prince, however, takes no pause, no break, no reprieve, the lips you stain with your own pleasure travelling a new path up the slope of your gut, the dip of your belly-button, the valley sloped by your heaving breast, the clavicle that shakes under the beat of a racing heart, the length of your neck that begs to be turned purple and blue by possessive lips, all the way to your ringing ears.

“Tell me you want this,” his command is but a whisper beneath the rush of your own heartbeat, so quiet you fear you mishear him. As if to reassure that your ears do not deceive you, he repeats the very same words, louder.

You nod, wordlessly, though your mind lies leagues away from rationality and you’ve little to no idea what the prince means by this. All you know is that if Aemond is willing to give, you are happy to take, no matter the nature of his gift.

No clothes live between you any longer, the prince undressed in your moments of delirium, leaving you both bare bod against bare bod, warm to touch and eager to explore and be explored, conquer and be conquered. The leg that sat upon his shoulder now clings onto it only by the ankle, the knee of it bent and sitting firmly between both your chests. The stretch of the angle brings a sweet pain to the back of your thigh, the muscle pulled taught like a bow ready to be released and shoot an arrow out into the night.

There is something hard, heavy, and warm that rests against your lower stomach, and it takes you glancing down to notice the familiar length of his cock, pink-tipped and spilling a tease of what seed lives within it against your skin, a liquid that shines under the flickering candlelight. The fire in the hearth has already lost its flame, yet you feel no chill while laying naked against the night. Though you’ve no doubt anybody feels a chill in the dornish air this evening, you prefer to credit this phenomenon to the blanket of muscle that hovers over you, four limbs, two hands and one eye that warms you beneath its stare, greater than any sun or hearth may dare.

“Tell me. Say it,” he grows desperate in his words, a hand slipping up between your bodies to grasp at your face and pull you back down to earth, eyes on him and mind back in the safety of your own head. When he catches you looking at him, at last, he seems incapable of stopping himself, bringing his mouth down against your own, a desperate parting of lips and the curious exploration of a tongue eager to taste yourself from upon his lips. Your essence tastes sweeter than you imagined, yet simultaneously more tart. Like a raspberry, freshly picked, you needn’t wonder why he feasted upon you with such delight. “Tell me I am not taking that which you are not willing to give.”

It’s not clear who out of the two of you moves, but the action gives way to friction between you, a buzz of pleasure that shoots down both your spines as you grind, body to body, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

You realise then what he’s asking of you, the tension that has lay, building stronger and fortifying its defences over the course of an unspoken number of years, from the first moment you lay eyes on him and the night you married his own brother under his own watchful eye, to the nights of pleasantries exchange at feasts and indiscretions exchanged thrice in the privacy of each other’s company, all leading to this, right now, both of you as bare as the Mother delivered you into this world and desperate to let the fever of lust at last break between you.

So you nod your head, and quickly realise that’s not enough.

“A man cannot take what is already his,” the prince between your thighs seems to approve of your words, the hand upon your face reaching down to grasp at the length of his manhood as he aligns his hips with your own, before dragging the tip of himself between the mouth of your cunt, all the way up against the hardened nub that lives above it. “Aemond, I want this. I want you.”

“Yeah?” He croons against your mouth, tongue dipping down to brush against your own, lips parted as a single breath of air passes back and forth between you.

You nod your head for a third time this evening, curl an arm around his neck as you pull his mouth fully against your own, losing yourselves once more in a kiss of tangled limbs and racing hearts, neither mind thinking of the risks that lay on the road ahead. There are no vows that bind you by law, no customs that dictate how you should interact with each other. There are only two bodies, bare upon a bed, losing themselves in one another.

His lips are the first to drift away, while your own continue to press against the sharp line of his jaw. The weight of his forehead presses into your own, the heat of his breath warms your ear, and the tips of his fingers drag over your thigh as he takes hold of his cock once more.

“Then it is decided,” he mutters, half distracted, it seems, as the mushroomed tip of his prick at last breaches the opening of your weeping slit. “I’m going to defile you, Lady Stark.”

The first thrust is shallow. You welcome him with a delighted gasp and a tight grasp at his blonde locks. It’s not long after that he gives a second push and, lastly, a third, till the base of his cock kisses against your soaked lower lips and his stones rest against the swell of your arse.

With Aegon, the process of your couplings is ritualistic. Him, drunk out of his wits, you staring blankly at some blurry horizon. You’d cried at the beginning, till war had come and taking your husband between your legs was no longer the scariest threat that loomed in the shadows. There is always that initial pain that fades into mute pleasure, teasing you with the thought of enjoyment, only for it to be snatched away all too soon as your husband spends his seed and takes his leave, a sardonic voice that calls over his shoulder, “let’s hope you make yourself useful and spare us the need of repeating this come the next moon.”

There is a pain now, as the walls of your cunt spread and mould themselves tightly around the shape of another man’s cock, yet it doesn’t deter you. It awakens you, makes you crave a greater dose of the toe-curling pain as the prince stills himself, fully sheathed within you, mouth dancing across the skin of your neck, the length of your jaw, the dip of your clavicle. He’s everywhere upon you, a blanket of Aemond, and still it is not enough. 

The prince grasps at your ankle, yielding it down from the pedestal it took upon his shoulder. In an act of pure instinct, you choose not to lay it rest on the bed but, instead, find yourself hooking it over the slender frame of his waist. You fight back a wanton whine as it drives him closer to you, deeper in you. He takes it as his command to move at last.

It starts off slow. A testing of waters, a low burning ember. His hips retreat from your own, only to undulate back down against you, smooth as a hot blade cuts through butter. Your body reacts with ease, legs begging to spread further than they can dare go, a display of how willing it is to offer you, whole and hole, to the prince. It makes it easy to drag your mind away from your husband, and the many misdeeds of your marital bed, and the anger that begs to be called upon when you think of the years you’ve spent being bowed and broken-in by a man who knows no pleasure but his own.

You find yourself turning Aemond’s face away from your neck and up to your parted lips, need to connect with every part of him that you can as your other hand lays splayed across his muscled back, delighting as it tightens and loosens beneath your fingertips, a pattern that only doubles in speed with each passing moment, a testament to the prince finding his footing, setting a pace with which to ruck himself into your opening.

The room fills with whispers of moans, cries of each other’s names, and the squelch of his manhood spearing into you. Over, and over, and over again, till your toes curl in on themselves, and your back arches off the bed, and his mouth trails wonders down the expanse of your neck down to the valley of your chest once more, that warm mouth claiming ownerships of one of your breasts and the other is engulfed by his hand.

“Gods,” you cry out, a blasphemous act amid this display of naked sin upon the goose-feather mattress.

“No, no gods,” the prince answers, voice ragged and breath hot against skin that shines with his spit and your sweat. “Just you and me.”

The leg thrown over his waist clutches tighter, holds him close. Some part of you fears it has all been an illusion — the visit to Dorne, the return of the prince, the thrill of at last tasting the sting of his cock slipping between your lips — and that soon you will waken with a gasp to find yourself back in the Queen’s apartments at the Red Keep.

The only gasp you give is one born of pure pleasure, the gentle grind of his pelvis against the hardened pearl between your legs. It sets off butterflies that flutter in your gut and fly from there, ripples of pleasure down your thighs, and up your spine, and through your chest. 

He kisses your name against your skin, as his hands clamp down tighter and his hips fuck into you harder, faster, more desperate and out of rhythm with themselves as the moments drag on, and on, and on, a force that’s driving you both closer to the edge of pleasure and certain to throw you off it, down into the pits of blinding ecstasy.

“Aemond,” it is a warning, one you needn’t even speak, one you would not be able to put into words if you even tried. And try you do. “I’m- Ah! I can’t-”

“I know,” the prince cuts you off and, despite his ability to speak without his own vocalised enjoyment interrupting him, he is in no better state than you are, hair sticking to his sweated skin, and eye struggling to keep itself open, and hips stuttering with every few trusts they give, as though he’s actively fighting off the inevitable release his body begs of him. “I know, I know.”

A hiss blown out into the night, through gritted teeth and followed by a pathetic noise that crawls itself out the prince, the growing intensity in his grip upon your thighs, your hips, any part of you he dares touch becomes a reflection of your walls tightening around the swell of his cock and the lips kiss the base of him, praying that he never dare leave.

You feel your peak hovering right over you, as if you need only stretch out your hand and grasp at it. Instead you grasp at his hair, fingers curling around the tresses and tugging them at the roots. The moan that follows the prince is one of approval. As the world around you melts away under warmth, and light, and sweat, you stumble at last and crash straight into a blinding pleasure, a cry of ecstasy infused with his name.

“Don’t leave,” you beg, and he listens.

He takes his own leap, no warning, mouth at your ear, hands on your thighs, cock in your cunt. The pair of you are a mess of panting breaths, and ill-delivered kisses upon sweaty skin, and fluids that stain you in each other’s lust. Together you stay for what feels like an eternity, limbs entwined and air shared between you, until the prince rolls off of you and lets himself crash, back first, against the mattress. Coolness kisses at the sweat that lines your body, the wetness in your thighs one you’d usually find uncomfortable, yet you welcome it now, even as a trail of his seed slips out your slit.

This is treason, of the highest order. The Queen and the Prince, bare for the world to see, bodies sated and shaking in the aftershocks of coupling as they lay side by side, one bed that holds two hearts. His seed has stained your insides, an act that threatens you both, yet neither of you care to speak of it.

Because right now, you are not the Queen, nor is Aemond the Prince.

It is just him, and you.

No gods, no duty, no family, no honour. 

Just you and me, his words echo in your mind.

“It was an accident,” he whispers. You shift on your side, all at once, elbow digging into the bed as you scan your eyes over the length of his body, waiting for him to inflict more pain, waiting for him to scramble away from you in a hurry, redress himself and walk out the door, fleeing on his mount and plundering you into another drought of pretending his is not the company you long for. But his voice starts up once more, and the prince does no such thing. “What I did to Lucerys. I think.” Under a sigh of relief, your shoulders sag and the exhaustion that alluded you hours ago creeps up on your bones, forcing you to surrender yourself against the prince, laying your head to rest upon his shoulder, your arm across his beating chest, and your legs entwining with his once more.

“I did not give the command…” The prince continues to speak, barely acknowledging you with his eyes as his own arm secures itself over you, dragging you closer, as if there’s any space left between you to be crossed. “It was Vhagar who struck. I do not know what I set out to do that night when I took to the skies in pursuit of my nephew. Perhaps I meant only to scare him. Maybe I truly wanted to strike him at that moment, and Vhagar was merely my vessel to do harm.”

You watch the apple of his throat bob as the prince swallows back words you will never hear. Despite your curious nature, you find yourself at peace with this, no part of you wishing to learn of things he wishes to not share, events he can barely recall without a shake making nest within his voice.

“I do not know the full answer, if I regret it or not,” comfort in your silence, Aemond finds it in himself to continue recounting, letting his mind spill to the floor and his mouth collect it as coherently as it can. “All I know is that repentance is not my path to take, my role in history has already been written. Kinslayer, that is to be my legacy. What kind of man can outrun such a thing as legacy?”

You, you wish to say.

But fear you would not even believe yourself. The maesters gather in Oldtown already, putting quill to paper and weaving tales from the dragon war into the history books, binding rumours, and facts, and treason, and falsehoods into its pages. History favours the victor, that much is known, yet you wonder what the books will read and what the songs will sing of Aemond Targaryen and the acts he committed, from the lead up to the Dance, to the recapturing of King’s Landing. A trail of blood taints the path he walked, but is it any more than your husband’s? Or Ser Criston Cole’s? Or your good-mother, the instigator of Aegon’s coronation and accused usurping?

Perhaps the trails of blood all lead back to one man, Viserys Targaryen, dead and gone before the dragons took the sky, and fire and blood became not just the words of House Targaryen but the death of it.

“Promise me, Aemond,” the candlelight has burnt out, the room encased in the darkness of the moonlight, a pale blue hue that blankets over the shapes and shadows of the chambers.

“Anything,” his voice is gentle yet firm all at once, soothing in its own assurance of the word it speaks.

“Leave before morning dawns,” you feel the hand that had begun trailing patterns over the naked skin of your back freeze, unexpectant to your request. You, too, can hardly believe it. Moons you had spent in court, wishing and hoping for a moment of his company, if only to scream in his face and lament your own lonesome days in the Keep. Now, you have him bare beneath you and it is more terrifying than you ever dared consider. “I do not wish to be burdened with the memory of how it feels to lay by your side all through the night, nor do I wish to know the sweetness of your face being the first view that greets my waking eyes.”

You glance up at him, head lifting off his shoulder to fully gaze upon his naked face for one last time this evening, wishing he could understand how much you truly mean it. He gives you no response and so you take upon yourself to end the conversation, a gentle kiss delivered against the scarred tissue of his cheek, one last gaze at the part of himself he’s haunted by.

As you feel your eyes slip shut, head back upon the safety of the prince’s shoulder, it is unclear what rings louder in your ear: the beat of his heart or the final cry of his dragon gives from outside the walls.

You wake at dawn’s first light.

It creeps in through a crack between curtains, the gentle breeze of early morning air billowing them further apart with each passing moment. Disorienting, for half a moment you’ve forgotten where you are, eyes blurred by sleep that scan over a room that holds no familiarity to your apartments in the Keep. 

The bowl of water upon the vanity reminds you of where you are, and everything that transpired hours before.

A stifled yawn, a stretch of limbs. You reach a hand up to wipe the sleep out of your eyes, but on its journey it gets caught against something else. It is soft, and warm, and wrapped tightly around you. The image of the prince, head nestled against the naked skin of your chest, sleeping soundly as the world passes by and daytime steps forth into the sky.

He has broken his promise, yet you cannot even fool yourself into feeling angered.

Not when the sight is one of beauty, a rare peacefulness on his ever-weary face. He looks his age, a man no more than a couple years past his second decade. You brush your hand over his messed hair, trail over the freshly made stitches that live temporarily above his brow, and sigh in utter defeat.

Not a day will come where you will not wake and long for this sight.

And not a day will come again where you will see it.

The moon has almost completed its cycle once more, and your return to the Keep crawls closer by the day. You will soon trade your time of respite and warmth with duty and court, by your husband’s side once more. And far, far away from the one-eyed prince.

A longing to watch the sun’s light rise over the horizon calls you away from the prince, and the bed, and the chambers. You leave him there, sleeping peacefully as he tangles himself amidst your sheets, and slip out the door with no more than your wits and the very same dress Aemond had pulled off of you during the night.

You make your way quietly through the halls, your bare feet padding carefully over the floor, careful to attract no wandering guard or waken any curious child. Solitude is a virtue you have so little of, and so you want to reach for it while it sits in front of you. You almost believe you’ve achieved it, stepping out onto the communal balcony that overlooks the gardens and stares right out to the rolling tide of the Summer Sea.

Until, for a second time in so few hours, you find yourself faced with the back of a Targaryen.

“Helaena,” you call out to her gently, apologising with a smile as the hand you lay on her arm causes her to flinch. “I wasn’t expecting for anyone else to be awake at this hour. Are you well?”

You both stand before the marble bannister of the balcony, shoulder to shoulder, and as her face turns to you, you find a shell of the girl you’ve come to know.

Eyes rimmed with red, and wide with panic, and brimmed with unfallen tears. Her hair is a mess, and not in the usual careless fashion that it seems to live in, but dishevelled, distressed, as though pulled at and tugged on. She’s pale. Pale as the days she lived in King’s Landing, hiding from the world with her critters and her bugs, before she travelled south and found the joy of sunlight warming one’s skin. 

The sight of her is most unnerving.

“I used to wish for a sister,” her voice is hollow, like the rest of her, emptied of its joy. “I had Rhaenyra by blood, but she was gone by the time I reached an age where those things matter. All I had was my brothers, each one equal parts awful and wonderful in his own way.”

“I, too, knew only brothers growing up,” you hope the worry she’s birthed within you goes unnoticed as you smile her way, appeasing the strange conversation she sparks up and praying it does not head in the direction that you fear it may: Aemond. “I used to force Cregan to sit at my feet and let me paint his lips and cheeks with rouge, and braid his hair. I think he began to wish a sister for us both, if only to take my affections off of him!”

Your laughter is met only with more troubled looks from Helaena.

“Then you should understand why I am so grateful to have you now, as my sister. Not by blood, but law, but a sister all the same,” you nod in agreement to her words, place your hand upon the one she rests against the bannister and deliver a comforting squeeze to it. “Then you should understand that I worry about you.”

Ice runs through your veins, in place of blood. You begin to fear the worst, images of Helaena knocking at your door and you replying in only sounds of pleasure. Of her twisting the handle and finding the sight of you in bed with her brother, her other brother instead of the one you’re bound to by law. 

You swallow back a ball of anxious energy that lodges up your breathing pipes.

“Helaena, sister, you do not seem yourself,” you keep your voice hushed, hoping she’ll do the same if she dares speak of the events transpired between you and Aemond. You were wrong to be so reckless, to think you were safe to step where you like because you sit far from the Red Keep. Nowhere is safe enough, nowhere will ever be safe enough. “What worries you so deeply?”

“I see him,” she hisses the words, like she cannot bring herself to speak any louder, forcing it out of herself in a breath. “In my dreams. It frightens me.”

“Who?” You pray for her to tell, try to think what defence you could possibly have for yourself and the prince under the accusation of her mind’s eye, a gift you’ve heard much of and seen little, the curse of the Targaryen dreamers.

“You’re there, too, in a bed soaked by tears, and sweat, and blood,” the more she speaks, the more the fear rises within you. The fear feels bigger than yourself, bigger than the affairs between you and Aemond. “He is there, at your bedside, a hand on your shoulder. He means no harm, but death is his nature, he cannot help it. He’s there to take you.”

“Who, Helaena? You must tell me!” You wipe away the single tear the streaks down her face and cup at her face with both hands, a gentle comfort that seems mute against her fear stricken features.

“The Stranger.”

+ extra hyde !

we're finally getting into the meat of the plot, beyond these two horn-dogs trying to bang in a world that hates to see a bad bitch thrive. from here on out, expect more drama, and mystery, and death (but who's?).

i really hope the length of the chapters makes up for the slow, once a month, roll out. the series' masterlist has been edited, with 2 new chapters added to the timeline.

a quick apology to anyone who may have felt the smut is a little lacklustre in this chapter. i tried to write a much wilder, kinkier, mouthier version of the scene and, in all honesty, it did not feel true to the context under which they at last wind up smashing. writing smut and using medieval language is surprinsingly hard (no pun intended), so this is honestly a journey we're all going on together (aka me trying to navigate not being able to use the typical language of modern sex scenes).

thank you for reading, see you next month!

[theamberfist]

Like Father, Like Child | Alastor + Exorcist! Reader

Familial! Alastor + Exorcist! Adopted Child! Reader

Description: You always had murderous urges, just like your adoptive dad. Of course, you didn't know he had them too; not until the day he died, when you swore to never act on them and end up like him. Now, you're one of Adam's exorcists, about to fight in the battle between heaven and the Hazbin Hotel.

(Notes: CW Alastor, mentions of murder) (gender neutral reader) (reader is Alastor's adopted child from when they were alive) (Part 1 of 4)

Words: 3,317

You awoke to the sound of banging at your door and groaned, knowing it was way too early in the morning to be up. You'd been having a particularly pleasant dream, too, though you couldn't remember what it had been about now. 

Turning over in your bed, you attempted to ignore whoever was out there. Maybe, if you didn't acknowledge them, they would go away and leave you alone?

You were wrong. A few seconds later, the banging continued, making you shove your face deeper into your pillow. "Are you up?" A familiar voice called from the other side of the door but you remained silent. You could hear them huff in exasperation at that. "Come on, don't you know what day it is? Being late would be a really bad idea!"

You rolled your eyes. What could possibly be so important that you had to be up this early for it? This was heaven, after all, so it wasn't like most people didn't respect the fact that you needed your rest. Even if you were late to attend some pressing event, you were sure whoever was running it would be understanding. Everyone here was, except maybe one or two angels you could think of that would probably stab your eye out-

Suddenly, you remembered why today was so important and shot up with wide eyes. Why hadn't your alarm gone off already?

Scrambling across your bed to the little table at its side, you grabbed your phone and opened it to see that you had, in fact, set an alarm. Only, it was for the evening; not the morning. Some help that had been.

"Shit!" You whisper-yelled to yourself as you practically fell out of bed and raced over to your closet to get ready. Luckily, it seemed like the you that had gotten everything ready last night had foreseen this, because your uniform was laid out and ready to go, saving you the time it would have taken to search your closet for it. 

"Oh good, now you're up!" The voice outside called as you hurriedly got dressed and then flew over to your tiny bathroom to finish preparing for the day. You were already running ten minutes late, but maybe if you hurried enough, you could make it just in time. 

As soon as you'd finished getting ready, you raced over to the door with your mask in hand and threw it open, startling the pink and white spider demon girl on the other side. 

"There you are!" She exclaimed with a smile, "I thought I'd never be able to get you out of bed!" You couldn't stay long enough to hear much more of what she had to say though; taking off into flight as you headed down the hall. 

"Can't talk now, sorry Moll's!" You told the winner, feeling a little bad for ditching her like that when she'd been kind enough to ensure you made it to work in time. She seemed to understand though because she nodded, waving goodbye to you as you flew off. You resolved to take her out for ice cream when you finally did get back later in order to make up for this. After all, she seemed to have your back no matter how much you'd always tried to push her away. 

"Good luck, Jez! Tell me all about it when you get back!" You resisted the urge to cringe at her use of that name, though it wasn't her fault that it made you uncomfortable. Even if it was what everyone in heaven had called you for almost as long as you could remember, it had never been yours.

There was no time to think about that, though; you had to make it to work before your boss noticed your tardiness or he would surely take out your eye.

You waved to the people you knew out and about in heaven's streets as you went; of which, there were few since it was so early in the morning. You knew the way to the heaven's gates by heart, so it didn't take long before you saw them in the distance. Panting from flying so fast, you made your way down to where a huge crowd of other angels had gathered in preparation for what was to come today. 

The sight of them was enough to make you nervous but you quickly shook the feeling away, not wanting it to interfere with your job. If you messed up today, you might not be allowed down there again for a while and you weren't sure if your sanity could handle parading around in heaven for that much longer. 

Finally, you landed near the back of the crowd, hoping no one other than the few angels lingering there had seen you arrive. You put on your mask now so you would look more put together and then looked around to see if your boss had shown up yet. Hopefully he hadn't; then he definitely wouldn't have seen you arrive late. 

"Jez, nice of you to finally show the fuck up!" A familiar voice shouted behind you and you instantly deflated. Of course it would have been too much to hope he wasn't here yet. Still, you turned around, glad for the mask covering your face since it meant you didn't have to fake a smile out of politeness. 

"Oh, hi Adam!" You exclaimed and then noticed the other angel standing beside him, "...And Lute."

"You're late." The angel in question said, crossing her arms in disdain. 

"Yeah, so sorry about that!" You exclaimed awkwardly, "I, uh, accidentally slept in this morning! Luckily, Emily came and got me so now I'm here! I promise it won't happen again." You were over apologizing, but knowing these two, it was probably the only thing that would keep you from being too harshly punished for your tardiness. 

"If you weren't such a great asset, Jez, I'd have kicked you out years ago." Adam told you in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"Years." Lute added with a nod as she crossed her arms. 

"You're lucky you hunt down demons like they're fuckin' livestock." Adam continued, "Now, out of my way! I've got some bitches to hype up!" And with that, he pushed past you and through the other angels to get through to the front. 

"You'd better prove your worth today," Lute snarled at you as she followed after him, "This is hardly your first slip-up, and even our patience has its limits." You nodded quickly to get her off your back, but in reality, you were glaring through the mask. 

She headed up to the front and you let yourself melt back into the crowd now, wishing you could punch that smug expression right off her face. At the front, Adam now began his customary hype-speech you'd grown used to hearing before exterminations. 

"Extermination day is here, bitches!" He called, "We're gonna go down and exterminate demon ass!"

"Destroy that ass!" Lute added in agreement. You almost would have wanted to laugh, if you didn't hate those two so much.

"Prepare to slaughter every sinner in that shit hotel!" Adam continued. Now, after having heard what went down in angelic court a while back, you knew where this was going. "And you all remember Vaggie!" 

There it was. You winced at the mention of your old friend, whom you'd assumed had run away back when she disappeared on an extermination day years ago. As it turned out, she'd fallen from heaven and was now dating the daughter of Lucifer herself. You weren't sure how to feel about that news, but you didn't think you could get yourself to hate her for it, either.

Of course, it seemed the rest of the exorcists clearly could, because they all let out loud boo's at the mere mention of her name. 

Lute must have made a particularly unhinged comment about Vaggie because even Adam seemed taken aback now. "Anyway," Adam went on, "Whoever brings me Vaggie's head gets...I don't know, a million heaven bucks! How about that, huh?" The rest of the angels shouted in joy while you contemplated whether or not 'heaven bucks' were a real thing. You didn't think you'd heard of them before...

"Ladies!" Adam said now, gaining your attention once more, "Let's fuck shit up! ATTACK!" And with that, everyone took off flying down towards hell. Despite the fact that you'd done this plenty of times before in the last seven years since you'd become an exorcist, you still felt that familiar nervousness at the idea of going down there.

What if you saw someone you knew from back when you were alive? There were plenty of people you could think of that had likely ended up in hell, and seeing them wouldn't be particularly pleasant. 

 But who were you kidding? There was only one sinner you were truly worried about running into down there. It had never happened in the seven years you'd been killing demons for Adam, but that didn't mean it never would. 

What would you do if you saw him? You couldn't be sure. After everything that had come out about him after his death, you weren't even sure you considered the man a father anymore. But at the same time, did you have the right to shun him when deep down, you were the same way? It felt hypocritical but the betrayal of what he'd once done still clouded your judgement. 

You flew after everyone else now, taking a deep breath as you entered the portal through to hell. You'd done this before, so there was nothing to worry about, you told yourself. Still, there was one fear you couldn't get out of your mind as you flew towards the hotel.

What if you did see your dad, and you weren't strong enough to kill him?

..........

You had always been an...Abnormal child. But then again, what kid wasn't from time to time? You, however, had grown up with urges most people never experienced. They were occasional and you always pushed them out of your mind as soon as they entered, but that didn't mean they weren't there.  

You'd thought you were the odd one out for it; that no one around you ever felt the same way. For the longest time, you'd shunned yourself for it, only to later discover that in your case, it simply meant the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree.

The day you found out your dad was dead had been a shock. The man who had been ever-present in your life since the day he'd adopted you was now gone. But more than that, you'd been appalled to discover the kind of secrets he hid behind closed doors; ones he kept even from you. 

He was a murderer, they'd said. He'd killed and eaten the people that were thought to be missing from your area for years. That psycho killer he'd always used to warn you against staying out late at night? That mysterious figure that was always in the back of people's minds as they went about their lives? That monster who had been the talk of every newspaper in New Orleans for months?

He was your own adoptive father. 

After the shock came the feeling of betrayal. How could he do this? How could the man that had raised you into the person you were today have been such a lie? You'd always looked up to him; always tried to be like him in one way or another to make him proud. 

Why couldn't he have taken a page out of your book for once? It wasn't like you'd never thought of doing those things; like you'd never had the urge to kill too. But unlike your father, apparently, you'd had enough self control to never act on those urges. You'd thought he would consider it wrong; improper, even, if you did, but it seemed now that he never would have minded.

In fact, you might have gained even more of his pride if you'd just given in to your own tendencies. How ironic. 

Even knowing this, though, you never bloodied your hands when you were alive. If you had, it would have felt like you'd given up; like you'd let your dad win. You needed to prove to him, to everyone, that that was not the case. You wouldn't kill, no matter how much you felt that unsatiable itch in the back of your brain. You would prove to him that things didn't have to end up the way they did; that he could have chosen not to act on his wants like you'd been doing this whole time.  

You'd been a teenager at the time of Alastor's death; left alone in the world to fend for yourself as the child of a now-known killer. It had been an immensely lonely existence, which was why you were glad when just a few years into your adulthood, someone finally ended your misery by killing you off themselves in a way that blatantly echoed your father's previous murders. 

You'd expected it, and in the end, you'd been happy to say that you'd succeeded in never acting on your homicidal urges. You'd won in that regard.

Which, you supposed, had been enough to get you into heaven, because the next thing you knew, you were standing in front of the pearly gates being greeted by a peculiar looking man with wings and a halo. Not to mention the fact that you bore those things as well. 

After that, the rest was history. You knew Alastor hadn't ended up in heaven so there was no chance of running into him there. You had no one else that cared for you either in life or death, so you stuck to your own for the most part.

That, and the fact that your urges still hadn't dissipated. Every day, you held back from running all that you'd built here in heaven; stopped yourself from making the unfortunate mistake of killing another angel. You were still proving this point to your dad, you supposed, even after death. 

Even if he never knew about it. 

It took a few years for Adam to catch wind of you due to your reclusiveness, but once he did, he immediately saw the potential in you. 

The adopted child of a famous serial killer, whom had still somehow managed to stay clean enough to end up in heaven after it all? And, on top of that, you had no ties to anyone else in heaven that might hold you back or make you weak. Molly was the only other angel you really got along with, but even then, you'd always held her at arms length, just in case.

It was a backstory fitting of an exorcist, and Adam must have seen that for himself, because he immediately got to work recruiting you for his cause. It had taken a long time, thanks to the promise you'd made to yourself that you still kept up in death about not killing anyone. However, he knew how to appeal to your murderous nature, and eventually, he managed to convince you that killing sinners wouldn't be a breach of that promise; but a necessary way to protect the rest of heaven.

Or at least, that was what you'd told yourself. 

In a way, you knew you'd never believed it. Your dad was down there in hell; you knew he was. Despite everything, you couldn't say killing him wouldn't count as breaking your promise. 

Nonetheless, you trained to become an exorcist. The process was long and grueling, extending over many years. It tested you more than any other experience in your life or afterlife had; stripping away parts of your identity in order to provide you with new ones. Taking away some of that softness; that joy, to bring out your cold-hearted nature more instead. You didn't lose everything in that training, but it was certainly enough to make you harder to recognize by the end.

That was also how you'd gotten the name people now called you by. 

"If they're gonna be one of ours, they need a killer name!" Adam had exclaimed to Lute, who nodded in agreement.

"Right you are, sir." It was customary for him to name all the new exorcists as they began their training; whether they wanted him to or not. 

"Since you're a murderer's kid, ya need a name that sounds wicked as hell," Adam told you with a thoughtful look on his face. You just waited for him to make a decision already; knowing you were going to hate whatever he picked. Your dad had already given you a name you loved as it was; your name. Nothing else could compare to that, even after all that he'd done. "How 'bout Jez?" Adam finally decided, "That sounds pretty rad, and it reminds me of this one hot bitch I used to know. What was her name? Jezebel, or something?" Lute barked a verbal confirmation. 

You cringed at the choice but shrugged anyway. Adam seemed content with that because he took a step closer and slapped you on the back. "Alright, Jez it is. Welcome to the exorcists, bitch!" And with that, he and Lute had flown off, leaving you to come to terms with your new identity. 

..........

You flew towards the hotel with the rest of the angels now; feeling your nerves bubble up in your stomach at the sight of the huge black forcefield encasing it. There were tentacles coming out of the forcefield too that held angelic weapons, and it now dawned on you that that was probably how these sinners had found a way to harm your kind. 

Something about the forcefield felt familiar to you but you pushed the thought away. You didn't have time to worry about it; not when there were demons to take care of. So, when Adam brought the shield down using his own weapon, you flew in and readied your spear just as you had done many times before. 

There were a lot more sinners fighting back than you'd initially expected. Adam had made it seem like the only real threat would be the hotel owned by Lucifer's daughter, but given the huge army outside, that clearly wasn't the case. Where had they gotten so much manpower?

You fought most of them off with ease, noticing how they almost seemed to be...drooling? At the sight of you. It was like they wanted to bite a chunk out of you, and you weren't about to let that happen. 

You flew to higher ground now, breathing heavily from taking out so many of the odd little sinners. There was a distinct feeling of accomplishment somewhere within you but you ignored it; reminding yourself that you were only killing right now in order to protect heaven, not because you enjoyed it.

...Even though you did enjoy it. 

Now that you were higher up, though, you found yourself closer to some of the black tentacles you'd seen before, which extended off a nearby roof and now seemed to be coming your way. 

Gasping in surprise, you brought out your angelic spear to try and defend yourself, only for the tentacles to suddenly stop in front of you, as if their wielder had just realized something. Panting, you glanced to the roof, where a deer-like demon dressed all in red with a few black accents was standing tall. His eyes were fixed on you but they weren't what caught your attention immediately.

He wore a big, yellow smile across his face that you would have recognized anywhere. It sent a chill down your spine as the realization that the exact event you'd always feared was currently coming to pass dawned on you. 

Here you were, levitating above a huge battle between heaven and hell. Here you were, performing your eighth extermination.

And here you were, staring into the eyes of your father, whom you hadn't seen since the day he died. 

..........

Part 2

Part 3

[tallgirl14]

Chilchuck angst

I love this lil middle age man but i aslo live for angst so her are few my ideas because I need tell someone and if you have angst dm me we can talk about it

He carries a wallet size family portrait (when his girls were little) with him when he goes down in a dungeon, and he looks at it when he miss them. ( I feel like photos are probably pretty 💰💰 so they only had few consist wedding photo, baby photo mayjack she's fist born, then one of the whole family ) and this photo is chaotic and It makes him smile.

This is the ONLY photo he has of his entire family and he hasent seen them in few years with his kids grown living there own lives and him and his wife are split this photos all he's got.

How far would this man go for this picture. I can see chilchuck getting badly hurt because he went back to grab it and as Marcille is lecturing him about his reckless action as she's healing him.

Marcille: "What could have been so important that you risk your life over??"

Chilchuck: "my family or what's left of it"

He shows her the photo and marcille feels her heart drop she finally got to learn something about him and its sad ( this miscommunication leads to his group to believe chil family is dead )

Chilchuck taught Mayjack how to pick locks, and in the manga, he says when he dies, if they need someone, she'd be their first choice. SO he obviously took her through dungeon showing her how to navigate because being locksmith in a shop vs. dungeon is night & day different, dungeon being high pace environment.

Could you imagine how traumatizing that would be if saw her dad die in front of her AND NOT KNOW THEY COULD BE REVIVED!! (Seeing anyone die would be scaring) Especially if she felt it was her fault.

At first, Mayjack was curious about going into a dungeon with her dad to see exactly what he does she rember as kid seeing him come home late tired excused but mostly worn down.

Whenever she asked him about his work as a kid he was always vague or if he did talk about it was pg version and normally he was just trying scare us about going into dungeon. BUT one thing he made very clear, he didn't want any of her or her sister near the dungeon, but now that she's an adult, he couldn't stop her.

" I still don't want you near the dungeon, but you are a skilled locksmith, so you would be valued and well paid. IF you're still interested, I'll have you shadow me on my next small job so you can see what it's like."

At first, it was like any job we met with the client went over to the terms dad took payment, and then we headed over to the dungeon. I was awestruck by the new environment, but it quickly became overstimulating it took me a moment to adjust. the first few levels, dad had pointed out things to avoid what were scams & how to detect traps and walked me through a few I felt confident. Most importantly, when talking jobs, always have a skilled healer. Now I realize why as we enter new room dad was working on trap I was observing the room when I noticed treasure chest peaking out corner not knowing it was a mimick.

Chilchuck was Halfway through picking his lock when his dad sense went off. He quickly looked around room and spotted may messing with mimick

Chilchuck: "MAYJACK TIMS! get away from that!!" He starts running towards her

May turned to look at her dad, confused " why I already unlocked it?"

Her body stiffened as she could feel presents inside the chest, but before mimick could attach, chilchuck pushed her out of the way taking damage as it jabbed one of its claws through his neck causing him to bleed everywhere all mayjack could do was watch in horror paralyzed with fear trying process what happened. One of group members took care of mimick while she scrambled to her feet to get to here dad trying to put pressure on his wound tears flooding out

"Nonononno im sorry I'm sorry 🥺 "

As chilchuck lay there dying, he was more concerned with the fact he could comfort his daughter. This wasn't how he wanted to see death for the first time. Afterwards, the healer from their group came over and assured her he was going to be fine as she worked on reviving him.

Chilchuck let out a gasp and cough out some blood that had remained stuck in his throat. He turns to mayjack " that's why I told you to stay near me..." He moves toward her noticing her hands are strained with his blood. " are you hurt?... may? "

She shakes her head, and tears start to fall down her face he pulls her in for a hug. " it's ok, I'm ok ... I'm right here. " she hugs him tight, and they stay in that embrace for a while. When they finally break the hug, chilchuck wipes tears from her face.

" im sorry you saw that... do you want to go home.? "

" but the job?"

Chilchuck shakes his head " don't worry about it I brought someone along for that exact reason"

[pyr0-kai]

Could you maybe write a mike x reader that the reader has a crush on Mike for a long time now secretly but dont dare tell him because she just can't is too shy and Abby helps reader and Mike to find together with her drawings since she noticed how they look at each other every time but no one says anything and maybe with just fluffy please. The reader knows mike a long time and knows what he is going through and Mike did become distance from the reader but the reader is still here for him when he needs it too.. And they kiss too :)

Hiiii, thank you for my first official request!! I hope you like it!

There shouldn’t be anything to spoiler-y just some tooth rotting fluff and bad writing!! (And one spicy reference ish? Nothing too bad)

Also So sorry, my art class was watching the little mermaid today so its been in the back of my mind.

Abby, The Little Matchmaker

You had moved in next door to the Schmidt house a few years ago. Mike was watched out the window the day you moved in, while eating breakfast with Abby one morning. He saw you outside of the window, and he wasn’t trying to stare, but ended up staring at your driveway, watching you bring in and out boxes of stuff from one of those large moving trucks. Abby finished a little doodle before looking up, seeing her big brother staring. When Abby spoke up, he zapped out of his little trance.

As a lot of time had passed you had gotten to know him somewhat well. Sometimes he would talk with you from the other side of your fence, or you two would sit on the curb or one of your porches together and just chat about random stuff. As he became more focused on his work, trying and failing to keep a good few job, he slowly began to, unintentionally, become distant. No longer speaking to you directly. But he still would watch you from the window of his kitchen if he saw you pretty [hair color] flash in the corner of his vision. Often seeing you playing with your younger sibling, or younger family members.

Once he landed the job at Freddy’s, he knew he would need help. And you were the best and only person he could really think to ask. It was awkward but, you agreed. Excited to officially meet his little sister, and hopefully see more of him once again. Thats how you ended up watching over Abby once he started working late nights.

Abby was very shy at first, but as time past, and you spent more time at the Schmidt house, she began to open up a bit, talking more and inviting you to draw with her. She also noticed though, how awkward you were with Mike. How you two both seemed to like each other a lot, but it was strange.

One evening however, it was just you and Abby. One of her favorite movies, The Little Mermaid was playing in the background, and she was drawing. Not looking up from the paper, she spoke.

“Hey, [Y/N]?”

“Yeah Abby? Whats up?”

“Do you like my brother? I mean, Like-Like him?”

Your face flustered at that question.

“N-Not like that no… We are just friends really.” You replied, voice cracking a bit.

She turns her head and looks at you.

“Oh really? At dinner sometimes when I mention you, he always says you’re pretty and appreciates you being friends and taking care of me at night. Also, sometimes when i’m not asleep yet, I hear weird noises, and your name coming from his room.”

She notices your face and how red it gets from hearing her speak. She knew you had a crush on him, no matter how much you tried to deny it. Then she turned her head back, smirked to to herself and grabbed a new piece of paper, before heading back into her room, to plan.

Later, Mike invited you to stay for breakfast. He was cooking up some slightly burnt scrambled eggs while you were tapping your nails on the kitchen table. After what Abby had told you, it became even more difficult to talk to him.

Abby came out of her room a few minutes later, a piece of folded paper in her pj pocket. She sat at the table, across from you, wishing you and Mike a good morning. You 3 ate Mike’s slightly burnt food, as Abby told you about a project she’s excited to start at school. Once the food was done, and the dishes were put in the sink, Abby perked up again.

“I drew this for both pf you! Don’t open it until I’m back in my room please!”

You and Mike both nodded as she dashed off into her room to get ready for school. You stood next to Mike as he unfolded the sheet of paper. The inside revealing a picture of You, Mike, And Abby, all happily hugging. You and Mike looked at each other, admiring each other’s eyes. Before you both heard Kiss the girl, from The Little Mermaid start playing from the Cassette player in Abby’s room.

You two both looked at each other, the paper still in Mike’s hand.

“Did Abby tell you that I like you?” He asked.

“Yeah, did she say that I like you..?”

You replied.

But you’re dying to try

You wanna kiss the girl

Yes, you want her

The song played, while you and mike looked each other. He gulped before leaning in slightly for a kiss, and you met his lips halfway. The kiss was everything you both wanted, soft, loving and passionate.

“I love you…”

He spoke.

“I love you too…”

You replied.

The song ended from Abbys room, and you both heard her shout

“I KNEW IT!”

You and Mike both laughed before he pulled you into a tight hug. To this very day, the specific picture Abby drew is framed and sits on a shelf. She draws all 3 of you together much more, loving how happy it makes you all. This always ends with a group hug, as well as you and mike sharing a loving kiss.

[ierofrnkk]

Many Moons Are Deep at Play

werewolf!Steven x reader (~3.1K)

Summary: Ever since you and Steven were attacked on the last night of your camping trip, he’s been different. Six months after the fact, you learn exactly how different he’s become.

Content: 18+, gn!reader, the other MK boys aren’t around (sorry), body horror, graphic description of a werewolf transformation, Steven is a werewolf, he’s in pain for like 400 words sorry, overuse of italics

a/n: does this count for monsterfucktober? who cares. the title is from ‘dark necessities’ by rhcp!

-

It’s been exactly six months, eight days, and fifteen hours since you and Steven barely made it back alive from that camping trip.

It was your idea; you suggested that this was the perfect time of year to go camping—the weather was incredible and honestly, the two of you needed a break from the city, even for a few days.

What a mistake that would turn out to be.

—

The first few days were great; the spot you two had picked to camp out was perfect, there was nobody around to bother the two of you—it was great.

The last night was when things went terribly, awfully wrong.

You and Steven had put out the fire for the night and were preparing for bed when you heard it. At first, you both thought it could’ve been a bear or perhaps a neighboring camper’s dog that had gotten loose, but you very quickly—and too late—realized that it was something much, much worse.

The beast had lunged at the two of you from beyond the clearing, cloaked in darkness beside the taunting, hopeful glow of the full moon. You two barely had time to react—you managed to just get knocked back by the sheer force of such a creature, but Steven was less lucky.

The thing had gotten the best of him, but only for a second before being startled and running off. It still left its mark on him—a nasty scratch that ran from the top of his shoulder down near the middle of his chest.

You both are lucky to have made it out of there with your lives—thankfully, Steven’s injury was no more than a flesh wound, and healed with little scarring. When law enforcement arrived at your aid, you had been told that there had been sightings of wolves in the area, and were told that this was just a ‘freak accident’ and that you two were ‘not in any more danger’.

It was a difficult few months after that; poor Steven, as skittish and anxious as he already had been, was a total mess after the incident. He was grateful to have you around, though, and you helped him to return to some sense of normalcy.

Things have been generally pretty normal, but once a month, Steven is…different.

It’s like for a few days, he’s less like himself—he’s more reckless, clingier, like he can’t tear himself away from you even for a second. He’s abandoned his veganism, too, which you’ve found most strange.

He’d given you some rushed, stilted response; something about how he’d gotten tired of tofu scrambles and veggie wraps. It was very unlike Steven, but he’d been through a lot, so you’d forgiven it.

There’s a lot more steak in your fridge than you thought you’d ever have.

One day a month, though, he goes away overnight—tells you that some of his mates invite him over to have dinner and play some games, and you let him. He never tells you which friends he’s with, or where he goes.

A part of you thinks he’s lying.

He comes back all disheveled the morning after, a bit worse for wear, but he always insists that it’s just because he and the boys got a little wild the previous night.

It all doesn’t add up. You figure he’s just going through some kind of crisis in the aftermath of such a horrific attack.

But after months of this same routine, you’re fed up—it’s been too long of him lying and dancing around questions, skirting away from giving you any sort of solid, definitive answer.

“I’m coming with you tonight,” you tell him as the two of you sit on the couch together, spending time before he vanishes overnight.

He looks at you like he’s seen a ghost.

“No! No, you—love, it’s not—there’s nothing for you to worry about. Promise.”

You’re not convinced.

“I am worried, and I’m going to come with you. I don’t care what your friends say.”

He’s flustered now, nervous and looking like he’s trying to find an escape route to get out of this conversation. A part of you feels guilty for pressing him like this, but you need to know.

After what feels like an eternity of Steven struggling to find the right words to say, give some decent response to what you’re suggesting, he speaks up, voice soft.

“You can’t come with me, love.”

You make a face. You never knew Steven to be so insistent that you stay away from him, even if it’s overnight. So, you give him an ultimatum.

“Fine. If I can’t come with you, then stay home.”

He makes it seem as if that’s the worse option of the two, but he knows that you’ve got him backed into a corner. Either let you come with him, or stay at home.

That seems to have gotten through to him, and he nods, resigned. It was inevitable that you found out, and he knows that he’s damned no matter what he chooses.

“I’ll stay home, but we have to talk about this, yeah?”

You nod right away. Finally, you’re getting somewhere with him, so you’ll take whatever you can get.

He shifts in his seat beside you, suddenly feeling awkward and much more nervous about having such a conversation, but he eventually speaks up.

“After what happened to us a few months ago, I’ve been…different.”

No shit, you think. He continues, fidgeting.

“At first, I didn’t know what was wrong with me, I thought I’d just gone mental, yeah? But I didn’t. Something, er, worse happened.”

Your brows knit together in confusion, and you’re immediately able to tell that he’s stalling. Playing with his words and trying to put off this inevitable confession. You need him to tell you.

“Steven, just tell me.” You interject, tone a bit more firm than it usually is.

He tenses, and immediately blurts out the confession like the words burned in his throat.

“I’mawerewolf.”

What?

The words were rushed, all jumbled together but it was so obvious what he’d just said. You can’t believe it.

“Say again?” You ask, desperate for clarification.

His face is flushed red with embarrassment, and he can’t meet your gaze anymore—he’s awful at this, but he eventually gathers the nerve to repeat himself.

“I’m a…werewolf,” he cringes at the word, hating the way it sounds from his mouth. To further elaborate, he gestures vaguely in the direction of the window, where the sun has set and tonight’s full moon has begun to rise.

“You know; full moon, lycanthropy and all.” He makes a sad, awkward little howl noise, probably in some attempt to be funny or lighten the mood.

You stare at him, dumbfounded.

Unfortunately, it all makes too much sense.

The “wolf” attack, the disappearances once a month, the sudden change in his appetite.

Steven’s a werewolf.

The glow of the moon through the window is suddenly much less comforting. You realize he doesn’t have a lot of time before he’s unrecognizable.

“I go out to the woods every month,” he starts again after a beat of silence.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody. Don’t want to hurt you.”

You feel the guilt burn in your throat—that’s why he’s been so flighty, hiding away from you every month.

You don’t even have anything to say. What can you say to something like that?

You aren’t given much time to dwell on your thoughts before Steven doubles over in pain before you, and immediately all of your senses go on high alert.

“Oh fuck, Steven, are you okay?”

It’s a stupid question. Obviously, he isn’t.

You wish there was something you could do, but you don’t exactly know the protocol for what to do when your boyfriend starts turning into a werewolf.

“Fine! Fine, just—ah-“ he grimaces in pain, arms wrapped tightly around his middle.

You give him as much time as he needs, and he manages to get a few words out through his pain.

“Put away anything fragile—ah, fuck—please. I can’t-“ he doesn’t finish his thought, dropping to his knees from where he’d sat on the couch, and your heart aches for him.

After a few seconds of standing dumbly in place, you move with nervous speed, grabbing anything immediately fragile—glassware, the framed photo of the two of you in Cairo, anything breakable—and toss it all onto your bed, before shutting and locking the door.

By the time you return, Steven’s gotten rid of his clothes, and it’s the least of your concerns.

“I don’t want you in here when I—“ he cries out in pain, and your heart aches for him.

He doesn’t want you in the room with him when he turns.

You nod unsteadily, trying to wrap your head around this situation. An hour ago you figured that he might’ve been hiding something from you, but you never had thought that it’d be something like this.

Even though he’s warned you, you can’t take your eyes away from him.

The first thing that changes are his hands; his nails elongate into what you can only describe as claws—sharp and deadly.

You keep a safe distance.

With a pained shout, he arches back, and you bear witness to the grotesque sight—and sound—of his breastbone and ribcage cracking and stretching, expanding his chest to better accommodate the anatomy of a wolf.

It’s killing you to see Steven—your Steven—hurting and knowing there’s nothing you can do about it.

His canines stretch and sharpen into points. You back away from the living room.

You watch as he falls forward, leaning on his hands and knees; his back arches, his spine cracking and popping as his entire form is rearranged.

The sounds of his bones and joints cracking and shifting are awful enough on their own, but combined with the sound of Steven’s cries and shouts in agony, it’s that much worse.

His joints are rearranging, moving and grinding against one another. It’s grotesque and horrible, and you can’t believe that this is what Steven goes through every month.

It’s awful, and it gets worse when you see the way his face distorts, his nose and his cheekbones cracking horribly as his face stretches into something more canine than human.

It doesn’t take long until he’s completely unrecognizable. A hound; a werewolf.

You stand a fair distance from the creature that used to be your boyfriend, watching as the beast paces around your living room, sniffling and snarling as it takes in its surroundings.

“Steven..” you murmur, and the beast turns in your direction.

You can see Steven’s eyes, deep and brown—and even as unrecognizable as he is in this state, you still know that this is your Steven.

Against your better judgment, you step closer, treading softly and praying that he remembers you.

The wolf’s ears flatten against his head, and it takes a cautious step backward. It—he—growls, something low in his throat. Not quite a threat, but a warning. You can’t tell if it’s out of anger or fear.

He looks like a wolf, but bigger. You don’t know if that scares or excites you.

Every alarm bell in the back of your mind is blaring, telling you to run, get out of there, but you can’t. Not when you know that the wolf in front of you was your boyfriend a handful of minutes ago.

Slowly and carefully, you lower to your knees—you vaguely remember a documentary you and Steven had watched about wolves, how if you approach them on their level, they’d be less inclined to attack you. They’d be less threatened.

The wolf steps forward cautiously, sniffing the air in front of you as it tries to determine if you’re a friend or its next meal. It takes another step forward, and you put your hand out—palm facing upward—in front of it.

Those deep brown eyes you recognize so fondly as Steven’s never leave yours as the wolf sniffs your palm, its nose nudging your fingers as it does its best to understand who you are.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding when it presses its nose against your hand, a large, warm tongue swiping across your fingers.

He remembers you.

“Steven,” you breathe, and he huffs in response.

You move your hand carefully across the wolf’s snout, brushing your fingers over the fur on the top of its head gently.

You’re petting your boyfriend like you would a dog at the shelter.

The wolf takes another step forward, and you can see more of Steven in its eyes; that care, the affection, it’s all still there, just expressed differently.

He’s a lot bigger up close, definitely larger than any dog you’d ever seen, and that’s more obvious when the muzzle of the dog (if you can even call it that) nudges against the side of your head, then under your jaw. You can hear the way he sniffs and huffs as he takes in your scent.

Your hand slides from the top of his head down behind his ears, and you’re able to feel how soft his fur is. It’s dark, dark brown, much like Steven’s own hair color.

My boyfriend’s a werewolf, you think. Yeah, no big deal. I can roll with this.

You scratch behind his ears briefly, before you let your hands trail across more of that soft fur. With every pass of your hands, you can feel the strong beat of his heart, the way his chest expands with every breath.

After he’s gotten a good idea of your scent, he nuzzles against you for a few more moments. You can’t deny that the feeling is nice, like subconsciously, you know that it’s him.

You continue to pet him, before he shifts, and lays across your lap, putting all of his weight on you.

It doesn’t surprise you at all that Steven’s werewolf form is as much of a cuddler as he is. He’s warm, impressively so, and you take the tranquility of this moment to truly process the way this evening has gone so far.

Steven’s a werewolf. That night six months ago when you were attacked, he’d gotten scratched by what you can only assume was another werewolf, and that was all it took.

You resume brushing your hand across his fur, wondering what happened in your life to bring you to this point—sitting on your living room floor while Steven’s oversized werewolf form lays across your legs like some big lap dog.

Most of the night passes the same way, with the wolf curled up as best as it can in your lap, until you move him off of you when your legs fall asleep. There’s no complaint, though, and he settles down on the floor right in front of you, going right back to sleep.

Much to your surprise, nothing was broken like he thought when he told you to hide away anything fragile, and the two of you end up falling asleep on the living room floor.

—

When you wake up the next morning, Steven’s back to himself. You take this time before he wakes up to take in the sight of him now, and mentally compare it to the way he looked last night.

You drag your hand lightly down his bare back, fingers tracing his spine, remembering the feel of his thick fur beneath your touch. He stirs, so you retract your hand, allowing him to wake up on his own.

He does, turning and stretching as he comes out of sleep, sitting up to get himself more awake.

Before things can get awkward, you grab the blanket that rests on the back of the couch, pulling it down to cover his lap, since his clothes lay in a haphazard pile on the other side of the room.

He turns to you, a sheepish grin on his face as he takes in the sight of you.

“Hiya, love,” he murmurs, voice soft and still thick with sleep.

“Sorry about…everything.” He gestures to himself, before letting his hand fall lamely back to his lap.

You shake your head, moving so that your head rests on his shoulder, now sitting beside him as the two of you wake up in the aftermath of an interesting and unexpected evening.

“It wasn’t as bad as you probably thought it’d be.”

Now it’s his turn to look at you, dumbfounded.

It’s only then that it dawns on you that he might not remember everything that happens when he’s turned, so you fill him in.

You recount the events of the previous night to him, from witnessing his transformation to the way his wolf had cuddled and nuzzled against you for most of the night until you fell asleep.

“Oh, uh, I didn’t—“ he shifts, keeping the blanket across his lap.

“—didn’t know that I’d been such a lap dog.”

He says the words sarcastically, in that self-deprecating tone that you always associate with Steven.

You take it in stride, chucking softly.

“Oh, yeah, total pooch,” you tease.

“We even played fetch at one point.”

He flushes a bright red, the color bleeding down his neck, and you swear you can hear the way that his heart rate skyrockets.

“Shut up.”

After a few beats, you speak up, voice a bit softer and more sincere.

“You go through that every month?”

He pauses, eyes falling to the blanket in his lap, hands fidgeting with the fabric. He nods, taking a slow breath.

“Not really a good way to spend the evening, is it?”

You both chuckle softly, taking this quiet morning to become accustomed to what very well might be a new routine for the two of you.

“You were pretty calm, all things considered.”

He hums, nuzzling against the side of your face as you speak. You can’t help but make the mental connection between the way he did that same gesture as a wolf last night.

“Maybe you should just stay here when you..y’know. Turn.”

You can feel him pause for a moment, thinking, but after a few seconds, he resumes his nuzzling against your jaw and neck.

“I don’t want to put that responsibility on you,” he murmurs, tone low.

You shrug, bringing a hand up to card gently through his curls. You remember the texture of his fur beneath your fingers.

“I didn’t mind it all too much. It’s not like you tore up the apartment or anything,” you gesture around, his lack of destruction apparent.

You can feel the way he grins shyly against your skin, and your hand continues to brush through his hair.

“Thank you,” he hums sleepily, breath warm against you as he speaks.

You’re definitely not opposed to one morning a month turning out this way.

tags: @winniethewife , @faretheeoscar , @silvernight-m