#sweetest poison i suppose

[izzymalec]

life's tough as a mika lover but a french hater

[kuraikyu]

@trehontin : Stop calling it a 'leak'. [ couldn't help myself ]

'' ... ''

He - ...

HE'S not even going to utter -- ... But very well, he can always proceed to worsen his dictionary.

Until then, let's ignore all the Yokais floating aimlessly around the place. Above their heads.

[prince-jjae]

In My Imagination. ㅡ h.k. [ceilings. pt2]

pairing;

huening kai/gn!reader

genre;

FLUFF. so much fluff. smut. mdni!!! i know i said itd be angsty but im a liar.

tags;

barista!reader, implied jealous taehyun, barista!taehyun, beomgyu being a sassy mf, daydreaming, plushie humping, coming untouched, masturbating, facefucking(mentioned as a daydream), mentions of aftercare, so much fluff omg.

part 1. tyun ending. masterlist.

summary;

"but that look in your eyes, and that smile it makes me want to stay here in this room.. pretending youre pretending too."

hueningkai was never really one for intense, whirlwind romances, but he just couldnt help himself with you. you, who stared up at him with shocked eyes, as if his very presence was the answer to your every prayer. when you looked at him like that, how could he not fall madly in love with you?

Ever since that first fateful morning, Huening Kai made it a staple of his routine to order coffee from your shop every day. He would wait in line, an unknown antsy feeling clawing up his spine as he bounced on the balls of his feet. He was impatient, but blissfully unaware of the reason why. 

He tried not to read too much into it, but he knew you were the cause. How could you not be, when you stumbled over your words and actions whenever he got close? You lit up the room brighter than any sun, and he was firmly convinced that science had it all wrong. 

The world didn't revolve around the sun. it revolved around you.

You, with your cold exterior and sharp gaze that melted even the slightest bit, warmed by his presence, sizzled under his touch. He kept plausible deniability, at first. Just brushes of his fingertips against yours as he paid or when you handed him his drink with the same phrase as always.

“Have a good day.” And have a good day, he did. He doesnt think hes ever experienced days so good in his life until now.

It had been around 2 weeks of this routine and 4 days of relentless teasing from his roommate beomgyu, when it happened.

The dreams.

It started as nothing, really, at first. Just daydreaming of actually mustering up the courage to have a conversation with you for once. Something beyond just ordering egg tarts and a coffee. What were your interests? What did you like, dislike, love, hate? He wanted to know everything, so naturally his mind filled in the blanks.

He daydreamed, nearly constantly. Always about you, always about how your voice felt like heavy whipping cream, drowning him in the sweetest of marshmallow fluff. He could listen to you talk for hours. He supposed he had, in a way, since he fantasized about you so often.

It was around a month after your first meeting with him that the dreams became more than just conversations he wished he could have. They morphed into romantic fantasies. Your hands were so soft, the few times he barely ghosted his fingers to your skin. He wondered what it'd feel like to hold them properly? To warm them after a day of playing in the snow? To swing between your bodies after watching a movie at the cinema?

And your lips.. the plushness of them, the way they formed around words and made them sweet no matter the context. God, he wondered how sweet they would taste. How soft would they feel against his own? Would they make him sweet by sheer contact?

He sat, sipping his coffee, egg tarts long since finished as he stared out the café window. He desperately wanted to stare at you, instead, but anytime he caught himself, your intimidating coworker was glaring pure death directly at him. It was startling enough to deter him.. but only physically. Mentally, he couldn't be deterred by God himself, he thought. Your being haunted him in the sweetest of ways, clinging to his skin and singing in his veins like a poison. 

“This cannot be healthy, dude. Just fuckin talk to them? Why drag me here if you're just gonna gawk?” Beomgyu huffed, bottom lip pulling into a dramatic pout as he slumped in his seat. He poked at his empty coffee cup, scowling at it with disdain. The two had definitely been here too long, and Beomgyu was itching to go home already.

Kai frowned, taking another long sip of his cold coffee, letting the silence between them stretch until Beomgyu shifted uncomfortably. Satisfied, Kai opened his mouth to reply with a hushed whisper.

“I'll talk to them, eventually.. I just wanted to treat you to coffee.” Came his reply. It was a lame excuse, if it could even count as an excuse to begin with. Beomgyu's eyes narrowed in challenge as he sat forward, pointing an accusing finger at Kai.

“you need to stop being such a pussy. You didn't drag me here to treat me and we both know it.” Kai's shoulders sagged in defeat, stealing a glance your way only to catch your coworkers eyes again. He promptly broke eye contact and blinked at Beomgyu, a nervous blush rising to his cheeks. Beomgyu just smirked at the pathetic reaction, head tilting to the side cockily. “See? Pussy.”

It had been four months after your first interactions when his dreams shifted.. again.

No longer were they sickeningly sweet, bringing a pretty flush to his cheeks. No, now they brought a flush to his cheeks in a different way. Now he buried his head in his hands, desperately willing the thoughts to go away when in public. But in private? He reveled in them. 

He had always collected plushies, adorable varieties of characters piled onto his bed and shelves, but now he viewed their innocence in a.. different light. Now, all he could think of when he saw the black cat plushie was you. Your initial indifference, your subsequent innocence and sleek beauty. 

He couldn't help it. You did this to him, after all. He was desperate, whining and puffing out meaningless apologies to the black plush below him as he rutted into it. He was desperate. Every movement was fueled by a different memory of you. The way your glasses slid down your nose, the way said nose would crinkle when you laughed. The way you would roll your eyes at a lame joke your coworker told you, the way youd poke your tongue out of your mouth when you focused on making coffees.

God help him, that tongue. That was what he fantasized about the most, these days. How would it feel to tangle your tongue with his? How would it feel to become so intimate with you, so sloppy that drool pooled and spilled over your lips and chin. He wondered how talented that tongue would be when he stuffed your face with his cock. God, what a thought. Choking on it, your pretty whines.. Would your eyes roll back? Would you moan around him? Would you get so aroused by the action of him fucking your pretty mouth that youd drip all over the floor?

His hips stuttered, pretty whines and a long, drawn out moan falling from his lips as he came. It matted the fur of the poor plushie under his hips, but he couldnt focus on that. No, he was still deep in his daydreams, imagining how hed take care of you, how he'd be so gentle with you.. guide you to the bathroom to clean you up, perhaps even carry you if you asked-

Twenty minutes later, he decided the stickiness was too much to bear. Once he was clean, he took the walk of shame to the laundry room, plush cat tucked in his arms to hide the sin he had spilled on them. But when he looked up at met Beomgyu's eyes in the living room, Kai knew his secret was no longer his own.

It was six months after your first meeting when he finally got the confidence to talk to you. God, he was right. You were everything he dreamed youd be. You were hilarious, your deadpan humor making him laugh harder than he ever had before in his life. He chatted with you while you washed the counters, swept the floors, made coffees. You had a closing shift today, and he had been there since the morning, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He spent the whole day talking to you, about everything he ever wanted to talk to you about. He learned your hobbies, your likes, dislikes, hatreds and passions. You were perfect. 

The two of you had been so engrossed in one another that the store was closing before you both realized. Not even the glare of your coworker – Taehyun, he learned – could sway him. He smiled, bright as ever when he glanced outside, seeing it was dark out. You were locking up the store, Taehyun was already halfway to his own car when he spoke up.

“I could walk you to your car, if you'd like? it's dark out…” He trailed, eyeing you for any potential discomfort. It melted into a pleasant smile after you nodded, inviting him along for the short walk. You two walked slowly, however, not yet wanting to separate just yet. He was infatuated, worse than he initially thought. Maybe Beomgyu was right, he was in love with you. He was entirely, wholeheartedly in love with a perfect stranger. And perhaps it was selfish of him when he asked for your number, clinging to hope that you were just as enamored as he was. 

And maybe it was the look in your eyes when you handed his phone back to him, your number saved in his phone with a pretty typed out heart next to your name; maybe it was the sweetness of the coffee still on his tongue.. but he really hoped you were dreaming of him, too.

[its-actually-minicika]

Dragon Sickness

Part 2;

Pairing: Bookcanon!Aemond x Strong!Niece!Reader;

Warnings: No usage of Y/N, bookcanon Greens, potential spoilers for Fire&Blood (but not really), dubious consent, allusions to sex, to male masturbation and oral from Aemond (female receiving - he just wants to tickle your pickle with his fingers and mouth but yk), slight angst, minor and major character death, vague descriptions of death by asphyxiation;

For the sake of keeping characters as close to canon as I can, the eye that Aemond lost was his right, not his left!

Word Count: 7k+;

Author's Note: Repost because yeah...

Reblogs would be really appreciated, since I believe I was shadowbanned :") ♡

Sorry for taking so long with getting this next part out ♡ I wanted to make sure it's perfect (or as close to perfect as I can get it), because the last thing I desire is to post something I'm not proud of/I wouldn't personally read :")

This gif was made by the love of my life and the moon to my sun - @aemondx here on Tumbr ♡ if you aren't already following her, definitely follow her right now now. I'll wait. The story will wait. She is absolutely amazing, and the sweetest person ever.

I also dedicate this chapter to my literal soulmate @diamantesprincess , who beta-read this whole shit-storm for me, and supported my insane antics ♡

Young girls dream about their wedding day. And women prepare themselves for the humiliation bestowed upon them by the raptures of the night.

Her cheeks flushed with the expectancy that was thrown before her – the avid sting that prickled her skin, flooded her veins and broke her soul. She could feel her smooth-green gown stick to her contorted form. The horrid fires of lashing out already licking at the corners of her downturned mouth.

The Velaryon thus swallowed thickly, whilst flickering her eyes by nigh to each corner of the squaring table. She needn’t glance into the silver plating to ensure what she had known, simply owed to the salacious heat that downed her heart in poisoned terror. How vexing it had been for her to hear the former Queen about – darting to her wedding night, hinting at her lack of purity. How terribly uncertain she’d felt, when Aemond all but abandoned her on that rueful and exerting night.

She’d searched feverishly for his company, trying to converse with him, to allude him to take interest, to inspire him to like her. But her attempts were answered with indifference, with clumsy lines of conversations, which never led her far in musings.

“– Even so, I trust that you understand your duty.”

She couldn’t have been quiet for long. For she felt how her mouth lulled opened, if only to blurt out a passive admission to Alicent’s extended words. Still she felt the decades pass, turning her old, and mean, and cold, as an ample flood of pain engulfed her sparring and incisive heart. The Queen Dowager sighed, either by lack of blitheness or by wry exhaustion, and merely shook her head at the sight of the conflicted bastard.

She supposed she should be grateful – for a private bedding brought across no prying eyes upon her form, upon her skin and womanhood; upon the shame she would soon feel, to spread her legs for the Qybor who slayed her kin. But a private bedding meant she'd have to be alone with him. A private bedding was unsafe, for it meant her maiden blood wouldn't have to be the one staining their rivetting sheets. And Aemond had killed men before, his flesh and blood, innocent spawn – so was there anything that would ensure he wouldn't cut her very throat?

A silent tear obscured her view, and one of Helaena’s beetles boldly flew nearby her plate.

Satin green and oryx white, silky blue and striking violet.

To be born a female was a wright cursed account.

Upon her birth, she belonged to her father. And when he died, she fitted Daemon. She suited to her brother, Jace, to the whims of the New Seven, and very soon to those of Aemond.

When she was young, her Septa was the one to tell her the story of her feeble birth – how she was good and quaint and quiet, how she had not ensued hard labour. How her mother cried when she saw her small and portly face. And how she sighed with half restraint at the notion of her naked sex.

To be born the cursed sex stripped one of their whole autonomy.

Benevolence was to be found within the weakness of a poor female.

‘The girls are easier than the boys,’ The woman nodded as she spoke, ‘They're less rowdy and quick to anger. Easier to marry, too.’

To be born a female meant a deconstructive marriage. Simply something that must happen, not a matter of debate.

To be born a female meant fantasizing about that marriage. Salaciously filling your head with hopeful dreams of charming knights, or handsome princes and comely lords.

To be born a female was underestimated work. Work put up by sons and fathers, whose sole purpose of providing to the girl they had to care for was to find her a good husband.

A future to be predecided, set in stone and judged throughout – all in valour of a missing cock, and a lack of tiny stones.

When Rhaenyra married Daemon, she was happy for her loving mother.

‘I want to be just as beautiful on my wedding day!’ Her voice chirped through the halls of Dragonstone, whilst rotating about the room, chased by an ongoing Jace, ‘We’ll have a pigeon cake the size of a young hatchling, and a venue bigger than that made of the smallfolk of King’s Landing!’

‘Maybe one that smells better, though,’ Jace snickered inside her ear, earning a brisk tickle from his younger sister, ‘But you’re right, my darling sister, it’s better to stay realistic!’

A loud fit of giggles erupted from the waiting children. Rhaenyra only glanced at Daemon, who in turn shook his head, bemused by her swallowing visions.

‘Whatever prompts you to even believe your mother and I will allow such a thing?’ The Rogue Prince graced her with a trumping smirk, as the girl’s face fell to a slouch.

‘I’ll have to get married one day!’ She rebutted her stepfather, ‘With a strong knight in shining armour, or a chivalrous Lord from an important House!’

‘I would be very careful with what I want,’ He mimicked a serious and grieving tone, ‘So far you could only marry Tyland Lannister or Kermit Tully!’

‘There will be yet some time before that happens, sweet girl.’ Rhaenyra grinned at her daughter’s eagerness, pushing down the rotten feeling that gnawed beneath her bludgeon gown. She placed her hand atop her cheek and gingerly grazed the youth’s plumpness with a soft, motherly touch. ‘A couple of years from now on, at best!’ She hummed into her tender caress and opened her mouth to speak again, 'till Jacaerys’ mellow voice cut the base of her new words.

Her eyes widened to the size of two round plates, and the young Velaryon merely scrunched her nose up in dissatisfaction. ‘Kermit wouldn’t be that bad…’ She tried to reason with herself, ‘And his sister, Celia, is very nice! We would get along quite well.’

‘Of course, of course –’ Jace nodded in understanding, before throwing Luke a mischievous look, ‘Or you could always marry Aemond – he’d be quite a match, you know!”

Silence ensued for a while, until all three children broke down in their hysteric fits of laughter.

‘Oh, Gods be good…!’ She murmured lowly, shock and aversion evident on her once impatient face.

She’d found herself someone who loved her, someone whom she could amply trust. A man that’d be reliant for her, in her times of greatest fraught.

When the War of Ravens first ensued, it was he and her small brothers who went to deliver envoys. When Luke died, it was he who mended and arranged the curdling scheme of Blood and Cheese. And when Aemond took a hold of Harrenhal, cruelly burning at their allies’ lands… it was he who gave his life in an attempt to free their folk.

“Gods be good…!” Her voice strained through the musings of her handmaiden, so preoccupied with lacing up her constricting and excessive corset. “Could you go in any tighter?” Her snapping question deterred the young girl to remove her calloused hands from the fine silks that engulfed her. All of the other women who tended to her hair and eyes took a backwards convoluted step and, as if whipped across the face and wholly burnt by dragon fire, they froze up in minute poses – all of them gripping their hands, and looking down in taught submission.

Breathless and submerged in bashness, her reddened lips pressed to a line, as her gaze followed their in suit, falling on the stone below her.

“I’m sorry,��� She began with a taut pitch, while expelling one of her brisk and tantalising breaths, “I didn’t mean to shout at you. That was below any level of discretion.”

"W-Would you like us to continue, Your Grace?" One of the older-looking wenches dared to ask the fair Velaryon.

No, she ached to bring herself to say, I'd stay like this, still half-undressed. Unpresentable for him to take.

"Of course," Her meek voice echoed in reply, "You must make haste to get me ready. The wedding is in but an hour."

Tens of dozen of pairs of hands flooded her every sensation with their ceaseless and insistent prodding. The softest of the cluster played with the slicked ends of her charcoal hair, adorning it with a myriad of pins and jewels, grazing her scalp with heavy and relenting hairstyles. Now there was prudence in her tying corset – as if she were a rabid beast who’d sink her claws into their necks, if only she’d feel indisposed by their way of picked-up working.

For the first time since her ladies swarmed into her darkened chamber, the girl’s leer settled on the gown before her. She took in a quick breath through the margins of her teeth, whilst feeling her stomach wail and churn with an unkept overzeal.

Her dress was of a deep set black, which seemed more fitting for a funeral than for a joyous feast precarred soon after by a most imposing wedding. Yet upon a closer look, the brims which laced its puffy bottoms smiled to her in rueful red.

Surprise etched upon her face, and the coy women must have noticed, for they all stopped forthwith again. She brought a hand to the light fabric, and grazed it slowly with her fingers.

She almost hummed in chasmal worry, before fixating her eyes away.

“Apologies, but who told you to bring this dress?” Her voice reverberated with a faint but levelled question, and a retort came back her way.

“The Prince Aemond, Your Grace,” What she assumed was a slight seamstress replied for the whole gathering, “He requested that his vest should also bear your House’s symbols.”

Surprise merged with upheld amusement, until her judgement simmered down to a least lenient of views – since the Blacks were there no more, what point was there for an exorbant gown with any shades of ghastly Green?

No matter his good-hearted message, Aemond hadn’t done it for her. Just like Alicent hadn’t proposed a marriage with her son for her clemented and invested sake.

There was no more point for her to wear his sickly green. There was no reason for the usurpers to display their endless rows of utter power.

Her family was dead. All she knew had gone with them – swallowed wholly by the sea, or by Sunfyre, by Vhagar.

“I see,” Her vocal cords strained with her roughened and perturbed reply, “It’s very beautiful,” She whispered not a heartbeat later, as she turned to the appraised seamstress, “Thank you. You must have worked very hard.”

As everyone resumed their tasks, a trailing truth pierced through her heart – she now had no family left to lead her to the Greater Sept.

His collar fell too tight on him.

He noticed late, as she approached him.

He swallowed thickly once before her, as his burnt brother gripped her hand.

Her softened smile lit up her face, though the disgust within her eyes unveiled her sickly mild facade. A rattled thought surged through his chest, mending with akin distraught. He knew full well she didn’t love him, but at the least, he’d have to try. The subtlety of her rejection stabbed right through his nervous gut, but still the Prince looked down upon her, gracing her with a half-smile.

The ease with which she then returned it relieved the throbbing underneath his leather patch, and as she mouthed him her timid greeting, the man bowed deeply in reply.

“You may now cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection.” The Septon’s voice instructed deeply, snapping both out of their trance.

His calloused fingers unclasped the belts from his broad and heaving shoulders – the cape fell heavily into his hands, yet Aemond still approached his Lady, and placed the Targaryen embroidered mantle atop her tense and fragile shoulders.

Brown eyes clashed with an unnerving lilac – both bride and groom sucked in a breath, and yet refused to look away.

The silence of the Sept was deadly, and as Aemond closed his eye, allowing his relentless thoughts to slip into a hurried prayer, he swore that every witness to their union would hear the keen beats of his heart.

The High Septon clasped his wrinkled hands together, drawing a faint and muffled noise which reverberated through the clearing – signalling to the lost children to place their hands into the other’s.

His Lady was the first to reach him. Shyly she grazed his palm with the smooth padding of her index finger, flattering an anxious probe which distilled his wilted heart, and brought heat into his cheeks.

Her small diversion urged him to press back into her – with a doubting and reserved caress made with his thicker middle finger.

The man bit into his inner cheek, as he aligned his palm to hers, and waited patiently for the Septon to bind their hands with the white linen.

“In sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity.”

Her thumb gently caressed his own in an attempt to soothe his breaths. Though her smile had broadened yet, her eyebrows twisted to a brazen furrow. The old man hummed with unturned patience, and he nodded at their leisured and unhurried movements.

“Look upon each other and say the words.”

His chest tightened with unruly pride, as her cheeks flushed with a deep colour, which grew to match the lacings of her fitted cobbler – both took a moment to compose themselves, before Aemond’s voice filled the room with the silk-smooth baritone of his levelled and protruding tone.

“Father, Smith, Warrior,” His lone orb swirled with both uncertainty and desire, as her own voice ushered him suit, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger.”

Her chest heaved with a weighty exhale, and her pushed bosom shifted in her dainty dress. Abashed by his sexual intrusion, Aemond focused his left eye on the shape of her inviting lips.

Though they said the words in unison, only her better half beset his ears, “I am his, and he is mine.”

“From this day, until the end of my days,” The Targaryen hushed in return.

Thousand of cheers erupted in the Great Sept, and Aegon even whistled lowly, but nought of the crowd’s boastful words engrained themselves into his mind.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

His mouth pressed hungrily against her own, with a force and desperation that dispersed her every hope for a chaste, intimate peck. The shape of his lips moulded against her with an ease that left her wanting – wanting for it to end, for him to stop, for him to keep going.

His scent invaded her diluted senses, and flashes of her brothers’ faces danced across her hazy view. And just as Aemond was about to deepen and take his uncouth ministrations further, the greying Septon interjected with a subtle but alluding cough.

Despite the fact that he refused to speak to her since the incursive night of their engagement, the palpable need and excitement that seemingly had gathered in him burst for all high lords and petty maidens to see. Coveting whispers reached the girl’s reddened ears – each muttered truth more beguiling than the last.

‘A Kinslayer and a bastard… what an ill match for the grandeur of the Great Sept.’

With her mouth slightly agape and her breath still somewhat staggered, the former Velaryon avoided his stare, with an adamant and willful steer.

Her own eyes began to water. And the aching sadness that curled into her vrying soul muted out any reminder of the crowd’s elated boasts.

What had happened was now irreversible; and the Greens would host a banquet in honour of the newlyweds. Goblets would drown her violent sorrows, food would fill them like fattened-up pigs for cutting.

Aemond would breach her with his cock if he felt disposed to do it. Then he might smother her face, or cut her throat with the same dagger that he used on her late brother.

For why else would he deny a prim and proper bedding ceremony?

Though her eyes still looked at him, and a smile still spurred her lips, the girl swallowed down a prayer.

Perhaps he had grown to like her. She’d been good to him in those past weeks.

The High Septon yelled over the cheering crowd, cutting down each thought that breached through her weary and misguided mind.

“Let it be known that they are now one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder!”

Then cursed be she, in the light of the Seven.

The dizzying nature of the fifth waltz of the night left everyone in the Great Hall drained and panting – fully taken by the mistifying anticipation caused by the encapsulating ardour of Prince Aemond’s wedding reception. Roaring applauses erupted from the few women seated at the high tables – Aegon’s eyes followed the wanton skirts of the lowborn maidens, and even Helaena disregarded her fattened caterpillar to grace the crowd with her absent-minded stare.

At the centre of the King’s table stood the Court’s styled “star-crossed lovers”, each seemingly preoccupied with avoiding any further dancing at any and all occuring costs.

The girl’s fingers traced over the rim of the wine goblet, glancing from time to time at her newly acquired husband, who seemed hammered in his seat and not at all wanting for chatter. The dim lighting of the candled room sprawled its shadows all across his tired features, which loomed all the more sharp and perusing with each notion of a passing hour. His lack of joyful disposition was clear and evident for all to see – for even his contented mother had chastised him under her breath.

Alas, any notion of stability had at large been long repressed, and not even her able chirping managed to pry at her son’s attention.

As her eyes trailed lower yet, over the arch of his broad chest, and the poignant veins of his clenched fist, the Targaryen gasped at the obvious arousal restrained in his black leather pants. Her face turned promptly to the side, before anyone’s conviction should follow her indiscreet trail.

Another smile graced her red lips, as a very drunkened Lord tripped across her narrow view. He approached her with bemusing boldness, borne out of believed renown, and introduced himself as Quince Webber: a lower lord within the Reach, ‘right across the Arbour seat’. His puffy face was basked in red, an indication of his mind’s plied state – and as he blabbered on his woven lapses on what wedded life should be, the Lady bowed her head with grace, thus managing to stop his spiel.

He slurred over his predicted wordings in a heavy and relentless breath, but still managed to congratulate the twain for their well-thought-out alliance.

“Thank you, my Lord, I am indeed very lucky.” Her cheeks hurt from all the smiling, but still she forced herself to laugh, “Aemond has been very kind to me.” She turned to face his stare, abashed, and allowed her hand to touch him. The charcoal leather of his broidered vest burnt her at the faintest touch, and the girl had to stifle a gasp at the arid heat which charred her palm.

“He has, he has!” The lord of Coldmoat agreed well-pleased. A wolfish grin spread across his droopy face, pulling both his plump cheeks higher. An impish laugh beleft his lips, as he took a swing of liquor from a nearby empty glass.

The corner of her smiling eye darted back to that of Aemond, who merely glanced through the drunk lord with a horriedly vexated look.

“Although,” He teased them with a slurred hic, “I can’t say he’ll be nice to you when the bedding ceremony will ensue!”

Wholeheartedly amused at his inappropriate and shrivelled joke, the old man began to laugh, much to Aemond’s disarray.

His fists came into contact with the sprawled-out wooden table, shaking every cutlery which remained scattered across it. The lively whispering of the Great Hall ceased with his vicious display, and even his contented brother jerked his shoulders in dismay.

“Aemond,” Alicent spat out his name, as her face turned cold and wary. “Perhaps it’s time you two retire.”

A restless snarl etched from his throat, and he looked ready to pounce – were it not for the soft hand that touched him, and the sanity utter of her voice, which managed to somewhat reground him, and contort poor Webber’s choice.

But as cruel fate would weave and have it, another end would spend their night.

“Aemond,” His Lady tried to coax him in, “Let’s listen to your mother… please?” Her fevered eyes adamantly searched for his, until a strange yearning and passion registered on his reluctant face. His hand gripped hers in pure devotion, and his large thumb ran over her flaring knuckles, as she'd done so many times before for him.

The lord’s lost face painted over with uncouth excitement, and he turned his back around, almost hitting Daeron’s face.

“It’s time for the bedding ceremony!” He announced the crowd quite loudly, and tens of voices of plastered men rose with every passing second. Some of them swarmed close to the couple, some tried to pick the girl from her leering resting place. Most barely launched up their feet, struggling to uphold their balance.

“There will be no bedding ceremony tonight.” Aemond’s dark and frigid voice thundered through the cluttered hall. Women sighed in great relief, while the men and boys began to bicker.

“It’s tradition!”

“I’ve been told specifically that it would take place.”

“Such stupidity!”

“I bet Renly six gold dragons that –”

“The King long announced there would be none.” Otto’s otherwise calm voice resounded with a harshened tone.

“Has he now?” A slurring lord took three wide steps in the direction of the pressured lady. Her whole face morphed into preleened discomfort, as she placed both her hands upfront. “Oh, don’t you even think about it…!” She warned him with a throaty hiss, but before his hand could graze her, Aemond grabbed his arching fists.

When his nervous gaze settled on his face, he smiled.

The lord clawed at his darkened neck, for Aemond forced him in a kneeling stance, and wrapped his hands around his throat. The timber in his chilling voice rained affront with his obduring malice, sending a shiver down the bent spines of the mere on-watchers, “You wish to gaze upon my wife tonight, Lord Ashford?” The callous ends of his slim digits dug into his purple skin, “You want to see her naked form, and compare her dripping sex to your own wife’s loosened cunny?”

The older man opened his mouth – but the pressure on his wielded neck impedimented his speaking manner and, much like a fish that’d been hoisted out of water, he could barely form a word.

“N…No-n-no – I’m s-s-”

“You’re sorry?” His eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. His wails of anguish pierced his heart – and yet his grip didn't uncurl. “You’re sorry now, are you?”

“Aemond, that is enough!” Alicent’s chastising shouts failed to break his unsound trance. Among the mistifying flock of ladies, the Velaryon stood high, but frozen. Her parlous specks of deep brown eyes bore into the shocking scene, as her own transfigured hand prodded at her covered neck.

"You've heard, perhaps, what happened with little Luke Strong, the bastard.” Her own eyes widened at his cruel retorts, and her deft fist grabbed at her skirts. Despite it being aimed to scare the stupid and unbashful lord, Aemond’s dicey did nought else but expose her to the whole crowd whole.

The heated blade of loss and ire impaled her through her aching chest, cutting both her breath and temper and deterring her to simply shake.

“– I'll gouge your eyes out and present them as a wedding gift to my wife."

Little Luke. Jace. Rhaenyra. Daemon.

Joff. Rhaenys. Corlys. Allyn.

Baela. Rhaena. Viserys. Aegon.

“I-I’m b– begging you–”

Little Luke. Jace. Rhaenyra. Daemon –

“Then beg. Beg my wife for her forgiveness.”

Joff. Rhaenys. Corlys. Allyn –

“My L– My Lady, p-please…!”

Baela. Rhaena. Viserys. Aegon.

Mother, mother, mother, mother –

“Please, Aemond, stop! Just stop!” Her own voice screeched into the balling clearing, as the sound of breaking bones and the smell of copper blood menged right through her very veins. “Stop. It’s enough. It’s alright. I’m alright. Please–”

Her panicked breathing flooded her ears. Her lack of presence drowned her in.

Her husband threw her an affrighted look, as he instantly let go of the man’s entwisted neck.

He crawled closer to his own wife’s feet. His piqued-up breathing staggered for a brief momentum.

For two or three seconds they waited.

And then quietness enwrapped the Realm.

Her honeyed voice had reached his ears.

"We're man and wife now, you and I.” She began with a faint murmur, and a small smile on her lips, “We must start talking to each other. Eventually, I mean."

She spoke to him in utter earnest, despite her voice’s nervous edge.

Alas he must not have replied to her, for her body shifted in her narrow seat, ducking away from him in recluded and uptight tension. “I’d like there to be no secrets between us – I’d like for us to tell each other whatever happens to be on our mind.”

The alluring scent of her dark hair, the creamy skin of her bare shoulders…

His breathing turned close to erratic, as he morphed his hands to fists. But two waltzes he had danced with her, before he felt his breeches tighten, bringing forth his quaint undoing.

He would have stayed in bitter silence, focused on the passing hours – were it not for the unlucky words that the brittle lord had uttered.

Oh, and how she looked into his eye; full of shock and brittle terror.

She must have been scared of him. For she was shaking like a leaf.

The walk to their marital chamber loomed with ever-pressing silence.

If only he could read her thoughts – then he might just mend his error.

“I rather liked the pigeon pie.” Her voice came out as weak and gruff, “Though it was far too big for those at present.”

When his answer wouldn’t beckon, the Lady turned and closed her eyes. She snapped her head in his direction, faltering her present smile. “I think that what you did was very chivalrous and brave, my Prince.”

The corner of his left eye widened, as her words registered in. The margins of her flimsy skirts kissed the ground atop her form – the swish and flicker of the candles remained the only source of noise.

The corners of his mouth bent slightly, at her ludicrous but fair assertion. Whether he had meant to thank her, or kiss her on that very spot, the Prince failed to puzzle out. Though his step halted in place, and his face turned briskly to her.

“Aemond,” He sighed, reluctant, whilst awaiting for her change of heart, “You said it yourself, we’re man and wife. You should start calling me Aemond.”

Her daring eyes looked up right through him, dissolving to a kindred stare. “Then you should also use my name… Aemond.” She uttered with a playful tone, testing his name upon her lips. “Though I… much prefer it when you call me ‘wife’.”

His reply was fast, forthright, “I’ll call you whatever you wish.”

“Then…” She began with a weak mutter, allowing her hair to hide her face, “No, forgive me, never mind.”

“Tell me,” He commanded with grave urgency.

Tell me of anything and I will make it yours.

“Mayhaps,” His Lady paused a while again, “You’d agree to call me your ‘dear wife’?”

His cock twitched inside his pants. The blood that pigmented his face descended lower in its lax pursuit.

All that you need do is ask.

“Anything you want,” His voice rumbled in a breathless timber before he could stop himself, “Dear wife.”

She must have thanked him with a smile again. All she did those days was smile.

She smiled when that low lord approached her. She smiled at her engagement feast. She smiled when Aemond took her dancing.

“I trust,” Alicent had swallowed deeply, “That your mother already taught you what’ll occur after the wedding.”

Better said during the bedding. When she’d be forced to spread her legs for the one man who’d damned them all.

She smiled when Aegon named her bastard. She smiled at the mention of her sweet dead brother.

She hummed as she touched her fingers, rotating her golden rings.

“What of Aly Blackwood?” Her eyes pried at her heavy conscience, “You said that if I marry Aemond, you’d think of a way to release her and make peace with Benjicot’s House.”

–

Her trail of thought was pulled before her, like a feeble dream which she won't reach.

The handle of a leaden door was yanked, pulsing the quaint hall with clatter, and basking her with a warm light.

“We’re here.”

Though wailing dread flooded her senses, her voice came out in slight bemusement.

“It isn’t furnished.”

“I wanted you to have a say.” The depthness of his mellow tune carried out his crass remark, “I didn’t know how many dresses you’d have.”

The notion of her moving in, of sleeping side by side with him, of sharing a bed and a mattress and a bath with him – it hadn’t failed to make her snort.

Hidden from his plane of sight, she allowed a distant scowl to break in her pretty features.

She wanted to scream and shout. To lash out in grave disconcern the moment his revolting hands came in contact with her lower back, urging her to step inside. She wanted to laugh at him – at the sight of his scarred face, his forceful probe and lack of honour.

“You’re so thoughtful, Aemond. Thank you.”

A grave unease surged in her gut. Pure fright prickled at the apex of her thighs. Her once loose dress seemed to constrict her form from running – from hitting him over the head and at last make her escape.

A pained sigh escaped his lips – the One-Eyed Prince who killed her family.

The Kinslayer. The Trident’s Terror. The Prince Protector of the Realm.

Almost as if he could sense her worry, the lithe Targaryen beckoned her in.

There’d been a moment when he only looked at her, bearing holes into her face and the front lobe of her skull, as his thick brows twisted slightly, jarring in misguided silence. Her jaw clenched involuntarily, as his face hithered in closer. She closed her eyes for two, three seconds, before she opened them again.

The lack of ease with which he gawped at her would have dearly made her laugh. The great and feared Aemond Targaryen, so incursed, taken aback.

He exhaled deeply in connived frustration, and simply took a few steps back. A rumbled hum of welting havoc trailed behind his high-arched lips, and a simple look of ardour was engraved on his sharp face.

The hands which had been snaked around her let her go within an instant, and as a curse sprung from his throat, the man found refuge and retreat towards the blazing fireplace. The girl followed his lenient steps, which faltered near the goatskin armchair.

His hands moved in accord with stress. Stiffly he had poured himself a hefty glass of liquid courage – swallowing it down with haste, and indifference towards the spectacle that he made with his demeanour.

His hands were shaking. His gulps of dark and bitter wine accentuated with every guise of stolen looks he dared to throw and hatch her way. At one point through his fretful jitter, the Prince snapped with a scorned hiss.

"Do you reckon you need help with your black dress, my dearest wife?” The rattled edge within his voice echoed through the room's long walls – his tone was mystified by pain, by torturous need, and want, and lust.

"N-No, my love, that I do not." She tried with shear to reach her lacings, as her mouth quirked with a smile. The desolation in her orbs spun the man to heave a sigh – his wobbled hand to reach his collar, and pull at it with forced renown.

Multitudes of scattered feelings reveled on her softened face – pain and fear, disgust and anger, lack of confidence and broad distress.

Inch by inch she thus revealed patches of her creamy skin. Feeling all her fingers stiffen with perturbed stilling discomfort, shame and angst and staid mistrust.

Although her corset was now loosened, the source of air within her lungs remained scarce and all the same.

She maintained his carnal stare, watching how his one eye darkened, turning to an opaque black. His lips pressed into a line, his furrowed brows deepened his stare – he gulped another hoist of wine and swallowed thickly at her chaffing stare. His adam's apple bobbed up and down in repressed bewilderment and apt surrender. His weary mind surged with a vast contrast of thoughts, each one more torturous and sparse than the mentioned fleeting latter.

He felt utterly inadequate.

He'd touched and fucked women before – handmaidens that caught his eye, wenches that offered their heat, servant girls who lured him in.

But none had managed to prepare him for the unrelieved pressure of her. Of the one woman he loved, of the one he wanted most.

She'd been kind to him when they were children – and remained polite throughout when he dared to rain his anger on his ludicrous half-sister.

He regretted every hostile instance where he hurt her with his words. And every bite full of prone venom, that he threw her brothers' way.

He regretted how he acted, when he killed the raucous lord. How he taunted him with perverse pleasure, how he named Luke's shocking perish right across from his sweet wife – knowing somewhere all too well that she'd take offence to it.

His face felt numb, his limbs felt heavy. He wanted to denude her slowly, to prode at the extended nature of her smooth and nuanced skin. To devote himself to her fair pleasure, to worship the slickness of her womanhood with a reverence and love perturbed.

He longed to lay his masculinity at the altar of her maidenhood, get on his knees and devout his being to making her peak with him – on his tongue, on his slim fingers, on his chin, or on his face.

He’d read the ways to get a cunt wet – it would take no less good skill and incredible amounts of patience; but for her, he’d gladly wait, and gently stretch her virgin hole, with the aid of his firm touch and the pulsing of his deepened voice.

He closed his eye in a small prayer, as he begged his Gods for guidance – to be able to bring her to the heightened cliffs of sinful rapture, to be able to prove himself as a man fit for her needs.

To make her love him in return, perhaps, and make her see his side of things.

As he remained hammered in place, trying his hardest to regain control over his trembled conscious and his indulgent thoughts, the man failed to notice how his Lady made impressive progress into her methodical and empty musings.

Her head hung low as she undid the lacings of her fitted garment. Her eyes were cast in shadowed doubt and in utter lack of certainty – her breathing came as fast and laboured, and her hands with-held a tremor with every new poignant display of another patch of skin.

Unbeknownst even to her, hot tears of merciless aversion rolled off her rosy cheeks, landing on her petticoat and the cold stone ground below them.

The Prince sucked a jarring breath, as she turned to face the bed with a heartbreaking and crushed compliance. Her softened eyes peered at his form, and a forceful smile unfurled along the corners of her swollen lips.

His expression must have tightened, and his form recoil in slightly – for her hazy eyes enwrapped him, and her shapely brow rose up.

“Aemond…?” She tried to lace her voice with sweetness, “Do you–” The latter words died on her lips, and she remained with her mouth parted, until her thoughts surged loudly clear.

“Should I… d-do you want me to sit in any way?”

The hoarseness in her tender voice made the man pale in disgrace.

“You’re scared of me.” He long admitted, with a rough and neutral tone.

Aemond’s feet carried him slowly, towards the place in which she stood. When his hand came to rest over her wet cheek, she stiffened up and almost winced.

“Why are you so afraid of me?” The desperation in his utter broke the silence of their spacious room, “I would never hurt you. I would sooner die than see you in pain.”

Realisation settled in, and her lost face morphed with awareness. She brought her palm smooth on his own, and searched despairingly to entwine their hands together. When she opened her mouth to speak, she blinked away her forming tears.

“No, my P– Aemond. I could never be afraid of you.”

“Yet here you stand,” He murmured weakly, “Half-naked before me, and shaking.”

“The chamber just feels very cold.” His wife hung onto the excuse. “I’m sorry, I didn’t – I swear to you that I do want this –”

“I will not bed you.” He hummed as he wiped off her tears – a soft and feeble grazing led about by the callous ends of his smooth pads.

Her face breached forward with mistrust, as her weary mouth lulled open, “W-What? No, Aemond, believe me, I–”

“I will not bed you,” The Prince repeated to her gently, “Not until you ask me to.”

A disgruntled and affronted sigh left the high arch of his lips, yet an understanding look rained across his lustful stare. The one hand which hung loosely by his side trailed a slow path to her jolting shoulder. He swallowed thickly before speaking, pushing down his burning desire.

"Ziry iksos ao qilōni lurksas issa kesīr." The meek admission in High Valyrian made her relax into his touch, "Nyke jāhor daor gaomagon mirros bona mazverdagon ao zūgagon."

The Prince staggered with a shaky breath, whilst looking her into the eye. "Skoro syt kostagon ao ūndegon bona?"

Although she tried so hard to speak, not a word etched from her throat. She nodded in undisplayed wonder, and gripped her husband by the shirt.

He took her balling fists in his, and kissed atop the even skin.

Thoughts strengthened with affirmed abhorrence steered clear through her befuddled mind – there may be hope to fix the error that she so tactlessly set off that night.

And yet before she could place Aemond’s hands down the shape of her small back, the Prince grabbed his sharpened knife, and merely nicked his open palm.

Droplets of deep-crimson liquid seeped into the whitened sheets, and the girl remained upright and frozen, as she watched him clean his blade and rummage through his modest cupboard for a piece of airy cloth.

With one hand he gripped the footboard – and began to firmly shove it into the stone wall up ahead.

The avid creaking of the bed turned into a pleased refrain. One not too fast, but not too slow, which carried on for a few minutes.

Outside their petulant and guarded door, whistles of men and cheers from women crassly seeped into their ears. Though most were muffled down by the sensitive and leal guards, some managed to blurt out half-enthused encouragements upon their midnight escapades.

A flow of compliments descended upon Aemond’s lasting pace – and some of the more improper ladies even dared to coo at her.

“It’ll feel better once you give it time, sweetling!”

“You simply must confine in us what it was like to ride a dragon!”

How utterly humiliating.

Like all bad things within the world, their idle and unseemly chatter ceased after a little while. Aemond sighed and stopped his motions, while granting her a knowing look.

“I’ll remain here for mere more moments. Then I’ll leave you for the night.”

‘N-No!” Her eyes widened in mistrust, as she gnawed her bottom lip. Almost too soon for her own well liking, she’d begged incessantly for him to stay. “Please remain near me, sweet husband… I so long to sleep by you.”

When her words seemed to elude him, she reached for his wounded hand, giving it a slight caress. She pressed her lips atop his cut, and devotedly looked up at him.

“Ao vestretan bona nyke udrāzma ao kesīr. Nyke lurksas bona ao umbagon issa rūsīr."

Aemond drew in a sharp breath, and merely settled on the bed.

“As you wish, my darling wife.”

Translations:

"Qybor" = uncle - specifically, from the mother's side;

"Ziry iksos ao qilōni lurksas issa kesīr. Nyke jāhor daor gaomagon mirros bona mazverdagon ao zūgagon. Skoro syt kostagon ao ūndegon bona?" = 'Tis you who commands me here. I will not do anything that leaves you frightened. Why can’t you see that?

“Ao vestretan bona nyke udrāzma ao kesīr. Nyke lurksas bona ao umbagon issa rūsīr." = You said that I command you here. I order that you stay with me.

[froggyfics]

The Deadliest Poisons Are The Sweetest - 4

You meet someone new.

(09/15/23) Note: If you have read this series before this date, please note that I have combined chapters 1 and 2 together. This may seem confusing, but I have decided that as a creative approach, I would like the chapters to be longer. This chapter and beyond are up to date.

Also, please let me know if the dialogue is too much or too weird. This chapter was a bit of a challenge for me because of it.

Feedback is always appreciated. Feel free to message me privately or comment below to let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome!

Word Count: 3,853

The air is stifling and stale within the banquet hall. It’s a familiar sight that you have seen before – servants pouring drinks until cups runneth over, men leering at both married and unmarried women, people stuffing their mouths with fatty meats. 

People are similar everywhere, you realize. The sight before you is akin to what you witnessed as a child growing up in the banquet hall of your father’s home. For some reason though, you thought that the people in the capital were more refined and distinguished than those in your birthplace. However, your experience in Gotham so far has proved you severely wrong. 

In fact, it seemed as though the richer people are, the more repulsive. It left a terrible taste in your mouth. The city was absolutely beautiful – with ancient architecture to depict its rich history and bustling streets filled to capacity with cultures and ideas from all over.

It was the upper echelon of the city however, that left you wary. Every interaction with the highest members of society was enjoyable on the surface, but there was a distinct undercurrent of greed and jealousy beneath the gritted smiles and half-hearted waves that people gave you.

It made you feel out of place, as if you didn’t already know that you don’t belong here. 

The liquid in your cup sloshes out and coats your hands after your shoulder is violently jerked.

“My sincere apologies, my Lady,” a man near you says. 

You grumble, but manage to scrounge up a small smile for the man. After all, it was simply an accident that he bumped into you. 

However, the vulgar stare that follows his apology tells you otherwise. He smirks at you while walking backwards, practically undressing you with his eyes. 

Your face reddens and your stomach coils uncomfortably. You’ve been pasted to the wall nearly all night, but you take the man’s indomitable stare as a sign to venture out and seek out Damian. 

You’ve barely seen him, let alone talked to him, since you’ve arrived in Gotham. In fact, it almost seemed like he was avoiding you since that fateful reunion in the garden. You were in such high spirits after that day, but now, you find yourself replaying your interaction with him obsessively. 

In your recollection, it didn’t seem like you said or did anything to upset him. Presumably, there would no reason as to why he steered clear of you, but you can’t help but wonder if it’s your fault.

“You will live and breathe for the House of Al Ghul after your marriage,” Talia said to you over breakfast a few days ago. 

You nearly choked on your bread in response. The timing of her statement, and her statement itself, were quite absurd. She rarely spoke more than a few words to you since your arrival and when she did speak to you, the conversation was shallow. All of a sudden, here she was, in front of you with the most apathetic look upon her face. 

“Certainly, Lady Al Ghul.” Your mother sat beside you and answered in your stead. “My daughter will become the property of her husband, and the House of Al Ghul, after her marriage takes place.”

How were you to “live and breathe for the House of Al Ghul” if you couldn’t even find the person you were theoretically supposed to exist for – your future husband?

You wade through the throng of people in the hall. They all pause their conversations to greet you as you pass by. It still startles you today just as much as it did the first day you arrived in Gotham. You politely greet them all back, but quicken your step nonetheless. 

Damian was certainly in the banquet hall. After all, this betrothal dinner was being held in honor of you and Damian. However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to find him. You spot him in the crowd with his head poking above the wave of people, but as soon as you near him, he inexplicably disappears. 

It’s overwhelming for your senses. Anxiety courses through your veins. You’re trapped in a space filled with strangers, new and old. Your family was busy socializing with people that they never thought they would mingle with – never considering your isolating plight. R’as and Talia avoided you like the plague, as if you weren’t about to become a part of their family. Talia assigned several ladies-in-waiting to be employed by your household, but even they excluded you from their conversations. Damian was the one person that you wanted to seek comfort from, but he seemed intent on dodging you. 

You stand in the middle of the banquet hall with people all around you, but you have never felt so unseen and lonely. A hand firmly seizes your shoulder and for a moment, you panic. You slowly turn around, hoping that the man that oogled you earlier was not behind you.

Instead, you meet the steely blue eyes of your future father-in-law, Bruce Wayne. You wondered how a gentle soul like him managed to tolerate someone like Talia long enough to produce an heir.

He seemed to be the polar opposite of her. Though he was a man of few words, he always spoke kindly to you since the day you were introduced. His eyes were bright blue like the sky, which contrasted the signature mossy greens of the Al Ghul’s. 

You sigh in relief and curtsy politely. “My Lord.”

He holds his hand up to quiet you. “Please, call me Bruce. You are to be my daughter by law. You are…” He wrinkles his face for a moment to think. “…to be my family soon enough.”

“Thank you – Bruce. For making me feel welcome. I look forward to marrying into your family and –”

“Father,” Damian curtly acknowledges, interrupting your conversation. He greets you as well, but barely looks at you. “Mother is kindly asking for your presence. Something to do with wedding preparations.”

Bruce nods his head and gives you quick goodbye. He begins to walk again, with Damian leading him, until you grab onto Damian’s arm.

“Wait,” you start.

Both Damian and Bruce turn to face you while your face reddens with embarrassment. You know what you want to say, but you struggle with getting the words out. 

“Hello,” you squeak. “Damian, erm, how are you this evening?”

Damian shifts awkwardly, never quite meeting your eyes. Bruce inquisitively looks between the two of you and excuses himself.

“I’ll let the two of you talk. I’ll…speak with Talia on my own.” He grimaces before walking away.

Damian longingly gazes in the direction that Bruce walked in. You notice his uneasiness, which only amplifies your own. What had you done wrong?

“Damian,” you call out again.

He turns to face you, but his eyes don’t meet your own. It’s like they see through you, rather than at you.  

You can’t even bare to look him in the face any longer out of mortification. “I have not been blessed by your presence recently,” you murmur.

Damian breathes deeply. “Yes, I…suppose it has been some time.”

Silence falls between the two of you, yet the party rages on. You look down and play with your dress, the same shyness that enveloped you the day you arrived in Gotham has returned. It’s green, black, and gold – the colors that represented House Al Ghul. It truly is a stunning dress, a testament to the skillful hands of the Gothamite tailors, but you don’t feel beautiful in it at all. Not when the one person you want to impress seems so thoroughly unimpressed with you. You gullibly thought to wear this particular garb tonight in the hopes that he would perhaps throw a compliment in your direction. 

You think back to the day in the garden just a few days prior. It felt like a hallucination, but the red carnation that Damian gave you reminded you that this was, in fact, reality. When you returned to your quarters that day, you excitedly dried and preserved the carnation and stowed it away in your jewelry box. You wanted to save it as a memento to the start of your love story with Damian. 

Although, your love story seemed to be a far-fetched dream at this point.   

“Would you like to walk with me in the garden? Like we did not too long ago?” you reminded.

Damian rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I’m afraid that I cannot.” He looks in the direction that Bruce left in. “I really should go. My parents…they do not have a civil relationship. I really should be with them to mediate.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” You want to melt into the floor and drip into the soil beneath the castle. 

“Right.” Damian stretches his mouth uncomfortably into a smile, and then promptly leaves. Funnily enough, he travels in the direction opposite to where his father went. 

You want to cry, but what is there to cry for? It’s not like you’re in love with Damian – you’ve only just met him. Yes, you had a chance encounter with him many years prior, but besides that initial meeting and the walk in the garden, you’ve barely interacted with him. 

It’s just that you felt a connection with him like no other. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t attracted to him. He was the epitome of handsome, and you oftentimes found yourself wondering what he looked like underneath all his armor. However, your connection to him was more than just your attraction to his physical appearance. You were swept away by how charming he was that day in the garden. You also wanted to peel back the multiple layers of his personality. He was the obedient son – the responsible heir to the throne – but he was simultaneously a romantic person who had a soft spot for animals. 

You felt yourself drawn outside to the garden. If Damian didn’t want to come with you, then you should still enjoy it for yourself. You twitch as you look back at the raucous party. Everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Except for you. Despite the fact that the banquet was being held in your honor, no one tried to stop you as walk out. 

The outside air serves as a reprieve from the stickiness of the banquet hall. You feel like you can finally breathe again outside the confines of the party. You can still hear the boisterous crowd of people from within, but the sound of it is considerably reduced in the garden. 

The moonlight strikes the flowers in a unique, but utterly beautiful way. The petals now have grayish undertones, but their beauty still shines through. The perfume of the flowers engulfs your senses. You take a deep breath in – you can almost forget your worries in the aroma. 

A melancholic sigh distracts you from your thoughts. The sound startles you, as you assumed everyone else was still inside enjoying the festivity. 

Curiosity overwhelms your better judgement, and you slowly creep towards where you heard the sound. You’re met with a downcast figure sitting on bench. Coincidentally, the bench is situated next to the bush of red carnations – the same carnations that supposedly symbolize deep love and affection. 

Black hair with a tinge of violet hues. Gray-ish skin. A sharp widow’s peak. And most strikingly – a red jewel on forehead.

She looks up at you when you accidentally bristle against some branches. Her eyes are a gorgeous shade of violet. A dark cloud surrounds her aura.

She’s…beautiful. Ethereal.

“Oh, my!” She stands up from her seat. “I apologize. I did not expect anyone else to be within the garden.”

“No, no!” You shake your hands fervently at her. “Please, I should apologize for the intrusion.” You look over your shoulder in the direction of the party. The lively atmosphere could still be heard meters away. “I just needed a moment away from…everything and everyone.”

“I understand.” Her dark blue cloak drags across the pavement as she glides towards the red carnations near her. She plucks a flower out, longingly staring at it. “I also needed a moment of reprieve.”

She plays with the petals of the carnation for a moment before crushing them in the palm of her hand. “Rachel. Rachel Roth of House Azarath.”

You begin to bend your knees into a curtsy until a realization dawns upon you. While your family is from humble beginnings, you are about to become a princess. The House of Azarath is an old, respectable, and wealthy dynasty, but the House of Al Ghul supersedes it. You hurriedly stand upright once more while Rachel’s back is towards you. 

Rachel’s head whips around when you introduce yourself. “My Lady!’ she exclaims. “Please forgive me for my ill manners.” She curtsies in respect. “If I had known I was speaking to you, I would have immediately –”

“Please, no,” you interrupt. You softly grab her arms to stand her into the upright position. Ironic how you always dreamed of being a princess as a child and have people bow to you, but these past few days have revealed your chagrin to people’s mannerisms towards royalty. “Be comfortable around me. I beg of you.” Your voice is laced with sincerity. 

Rachel timidly nods her head. “Yes, my Lady.”

You roll your eyes at her politeness. “And please, I implore you not to call me that.”

You exhale loudly and shames roils within you at your sudden temper. “I apologize Lady Roth. You are not the subject of my anger, so it is unfair of me to burden you with it.” You bitterly glare at the carnations with a scowl on your face and sit down on the bench with a humph. 

Rachel slowly sits on the opposite side of the bench, leaving the middle vacant. 

“Why are you not inside enjoying the festivities?” you ask, breaking the silence.

Rachel is silent, and you almost believe that she didn’t hear you until she responds abruptly. 

“I hate weddings,” she admits. The look upon your face at her admission must have been bizarre because she meets your gaze with a soft laugh. “Allow me to rephrase that – I do not hate weddings.” A deep sigh escapes her lips. “I suppose I hate the idea of it.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Your body leans in towards her ever so slightly. 

Rachel observes your face with a mysterious look upon her face. It’s almost like her violet eyes can see right through to your soul, scooping out the innermost parts of you for her to analyze.

“Well, if you insist. Simply put, weddings are public business transactions. Akin to how you purchase bread from your local baker for a few coins, weddings are a way to signal a purchase. In your case for example, the baker would be the House of Al Ghul and Wayne, the bread would be Prince Damian – long may he live –, your dowry would be the coins, and you and your family are the customers.”

Your eyebrows scrunch in thought. Her analogy made perfect sense, but it also left a bad taste in your mouth.

“I suppose so,” you muse. “However, I would not go as far as to call it a ‘business transaction’. Weddings are so much more than that.” You start to move your hands to emphasis your point. “Prince Damian cannot be compared to – to bread and I do not feel like I purchased him.”

“Ahh, but that is exactly what you did. Your dowry ensured your betrothal to him. It may not have been in coins, but you certainly did purchase him.”

“Well, I suppose you think weddings are useless in the eyes of the law, then.”

“Yes, that’s precisely what I think.”

Your head shoots up and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head. “No, weddings are absolutely necessary,” you stammer. “Weddings signify the joining of two people who will share…quite practically their entire lives together. They signify the start of a new generation. They signify family and unity.”

“My dear.” Rachel grabs one of your flailing hands into her own. The warmth of her contact immediately plateaus your ever increasing volitivity. “Weddings symbolize whatever you want them to symbolize. For you, it’s obvious that they represent love and some sort of girlish romance. But for others, weddings are the end of their lives as they know it. The beginning of a prison sentence. The end of youth.”

“That’s so…morbid.” You giggle at the absurdness of it all. “Surely, you want to get married one day yourself.”

“I do not care for marriage,” she sharply replies. “There is nothing that it could provide for me that I cannot obtain on my own.”

“What about…children?” You want to hide in the bushes at the mention. You learned quite recently that despite the fairytales your grandmother yammered on about in your youth, the act of producing an heir was rather…procedural. You furiously blush as you recall your mother sitting you down a few days prior to inform you of what would happen on your wedding night.

“Children?” Rachel scoffs. She adjusts herself on the bench, so that she faces you entirely. “You do not need to be married to have children.”

You open your mouth to reply, but immediately close it. Your posture slumps in defeat. Rachel was right.

The disturbing heat of shame creeps into your body. You feel utterly foolish. It should have been obvious to you that children could be born out of wedlock – Damian would be a prime example of such an event. Still, it felt unnerving to you that procreation was taught to you under the context of marriage. It seemed as though there were certain unspoken rules that you had to follow, but others did not. 

“Well, it is more…respectable for a person to get married. Is it not?” You triumphantly straighten your shoulders back, hoping this would make Rachel stumble. 

“Respectable.” She repeats the word slowly, as if tasting it as she spoke it. She scoots closer to you, so close in fact that your foreheads nearly bump into one another. “May I be frank with you?” Your nod gives her permission to continue. “You will soon learn that Gotham lacks respectable people. Being respectable implies that you think outside of yourself, which will be hard to find in this city.” She stares deeply into your eyes. “Everyone is out for themselves, and it is only fair that I warn you of this now.”

Rachel’s words leave you with a mixture of confusion and intrigue. It’s obvious that Rachel understands the innerworkings of the Gothamites, as she was raised here. You can’t help but agree with her rational – your own experiences within Gotham showcased a city rotten with false pretenses. 

You also wonder what secrets – and whose secrets – she must know about. 

“Rachel, I must say our conversation has been…refreshing.” You half-heartedly chuckle in an effort to dissipate the sudden tenseness. “Honestly, it comes as quite a surprise. You are likely the only person since I’ve arrived in the capital to speak to me so openly – so honestly.” You place your hands on top of hers and squeeze. “It truly means so much to me.”

Her honesty was what you’ve been craving ever since you arrived in Gotham. Rachel was correct – people in Gotham were inherently selfish. Perhaps, you’ll come to understand the culture of the city the longer you’re in it. Back in your humble hometown, the aristocrats and countryfolk alike were welcoming, gracious, and outgoing. Here in Gotham, it seemed like every comment was thinly veiled with a backstory that you were unaware of. 

Everyone already had their own circles, and no one seemed to want you in theirs. Not even Damian.

A sudden idea popped into your head. “I know we have only just met, but you have made such an impression on me. I’m so inconsolably lonely, Rachel.” Your admittance brought tears to your eyes. Your heart wrenched as the feeling of loneliness enveloped it.  “My family will return home after the wedding. All I will have is my dear servant Alice, but that is all! It would truly mean the world to me if you joined my household staff. To be my lady-in-waiting.”

You look at Rachel hopefully. Tears threaten to escape your waterline, especially as she rescinds her hands from your grasp and stands up.

“I do not think this is a wise idea,” she whispers.

“Why not?” You stand in front of her and place your hands on her shoulders. 

Rachel does her absolute best to avoid your gaze. “Lady Talia has already appointed ladies-in-waiting for you. I saw the flock of them inside.”

You shake your head wildly. “Yes, yes, I know. However, who says there is a limit to how many I can have? Besides, they have barely even looked in my direction since we’ve met. Rachel…” You bend your knees so that your face can meet her eyes. “I have no one here. No one on my side. Lady Talia abhors me. King R’as avoids me. My own family ignores me in favor of flattering people that would not have even breathed in their direction just a few months ago. And Prince Damian is –”

You suddenly screech to a halt at the remembrance of Damian. Rachel nudges you when you become silent. 

“What about Prince Damian?” she asks.

Your hands slide off her shoulders, so that you could wrap your arms around yourself. The act provided you little comfort against the pang within your heart. “I suppose what you said about weddings earlier was. Weddings can symbolize many things, including the start of a prison sentence.” You smile at the red carnations to your side. The meaning behind them is tucked far away in the back of your head. “I fear that is what Prince Damian is thinking. I naively thought this union would be like a fairytale, but alas, I��m still a girl with much to learn.”

You can’t help but sniffle as you try to control the onslaught of tears. How embarrassing would it be for Rachel to witness you cry on the first night you meet! Your stomach twists at the sight of pity in her eyes. How pathetic you must look. How pathetic, yet you can’t help it. You wanted her to save you. You desperately needed her guidance.

“You give me no choice, my Lady. I suppose I must accept my new position at once.” 

Rachel breaks out into an infectious smile. You breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, a sliver of hope cracks through the dark gloomy Gotham clouds. Rachel may not be a friend yet, but for now, she is your only ally. She is the only dependable connection you’ve developed outside the influence of the Al Ghul household.                                                      

You were to be a princess within a week’s time, but a pretty crown would not distract from the fact that you were still an outsider – to Talia, to R’as, to the citizens of Gotham, and to Damian. 

[enixamyram]

I have tried really hard to ignore anti nonsense. I just wanna focus on the good and positive side of this fandom and just enjoy the series in general. But it's also hard bottling up thoughts when I'm used to ranting for the sake of getting my thoughts and feelings out and moving then on.

So I'm gonna put a couple reactions to Anti-Related Hazbin things under the read more just to get them out! Because my god, some of these are bullshit!

Chaggie - I've seen so much bullshit citicizm for this ship. People claiming they're boring or bland or badly written and I have yet to see a legit reason why other than that they don't have any typical relationship drama (which, for the record, I personally am so relieved about) or because they're not being overly affectionate every five minutes of screen time. And you know, this especially drives me crazy because they have some of the sweetest little gestures, whether it be holding hands, hugging, swinging each other round or even just the constant damn heart eyes they have when looking at each other in the background! They're so damn precious and if you can't see that, you don't know what a legit established relationship is supposed to be past the honeymoon phase.

Charlie - People once again have claimed she's badly written. I don't know why people seem to hate happy kind hearted females so much but I have seen this exact complaint about many characters who are similar to her. None of which are actually badly written. They're just not the new stereotype "bad asses" that seems to be the only acceptable way to write a female character lately. Which is ironic since a lot of the so called "bad ass" female characters I have seen are often so one dimensional. Yet we have Charlie, a kind hearted but also sometimes naive girl who is doing her best while also learning with the rest of her friends and ya'll are gonna try and claim she's not amazing? The more I rewatch the show, the more I wanna reschedule my favorite character list because there's not a second I don't adore having her on my screen.

Niffty - This one really makes me want to slam my head against the wall. I have seen so many people complain and claim she acts like a child. Bare in mind, I've just watched episode 3 - you know, the one where Niffty is fully ready to throw herself into the BDSM that Angel takes them to. The only thing close to evidence that I have seen for her acting like a child is the episode where she gets drunk except she's still not acting like a child there, she's acting like a drunk! When some people are drunk they're silly and dumb and very "child-like". Otherwise, the only reason I think people call her a child is because she's is literally small like one. Yet, if you actually look at anything past her basic physical appearance, she's a crazy murder machine and I don't know many children I can also give that title to.

Angel - This is so old and everyone else has said this all so much better than me but I just really want to repeat: Just because it's not YOUR representation doesn't mean it's BAD representation. Just because you dealt with your sexual assault in a certain way does not mean everyone deals with it that way and it sure as hell doesn't give you a right to dismiss others. I have seen so many people say they identify with Angel's character and his hypersexuality, so it is so annoyingly arrogant to see people trying to shut them down entirely because Angel's character isn't portraying their personal reactions. It's just so amazingly self-centered to be saying that if you can't personally relate to it exactly, then it shouldn't exist at all. Seriously, grow the fuck up.

Loser Baby/Poison - Again, this has been said so many times before by other people but I'm gonna add/repeat. Some people take these songs and videos so damn literally. I saw someone claim Angel was happy during his dance with Valentino in Poison which apparently made the whole character a contradiction? Completely ignoring the parts where he's clearly miserable or the part where he's clearly putting on a fake smile or even the part where he all out says he dissociates to get through. And then you have Loser Baby where people are outraged that Husk call Angel a loser and is apparently trying to compare their situations? I mean, he's obviously not saying they're situations are the same if you think about it for more than two seconds. Like, are you seriously this literal? If I said the message went over your head, would ya'll look up?

[violettduchess]

Hello! I saw prompts were open, and figured I'd shoot my shot, and if you don't get to it it's fine! I don't suppose you could do the prompt "late night trysts" with Ikevamp Faust? It can be fluff or spicy, up to you! Thank you so much :)

A/N: I haven't written Faust in a long time but I saw this and immediately knew what I wanted to do. Here you go @almond-lebkuchen 💜 Vielen Dank für die Anfrage!

Faust x Reader

Prompt: Late Night Trysts, an entry for my and @lorei-writes Sunshine and Starlight CC; I went with spicy for this one.

WC: 750

It’s not a night anyone should be out. The blackened clouds tremble as they hurl piercing drops of cold water down onto the earth, battering the streets and buildings. Thunder throttles the sky, shaking loose more rain than the town has seen in a decade. It sluices between the cobblestones and clings to rattled windowpanes. Lightning angrily cracks its blinding whip across the heavens as trees bend to the will of the furious winds. Your dark cloak billows around you, fluttering angrily against the storm as it wraps itself around your legs. A hard yank sets you free as you continue hurrying across the wet stones and up the wide, slippery steps of the church. After all, you agreed to meet him, come hell or high water.

Tonight both are here.

The inside of the church is mercifully dry and quiet, a sanctuary from the muffled howling of the summer storm outside. The gray stone walls and dark wooden pews are bathed in the pale light of hundreds of small candles, placed at various spots around the inside. Shadows flicker, stretching and shrinking with the dancing of the tiny flames. They crawl along the pews and glide down the aisles. You push back your hood and then with chilled fingers, slowly remove your rain-sodden cloak. Your eyes need a moment to adjust to the dim light and your body stills as you appreciate the warmth that is slowly combating the cold on your skin. Your cloak drips as you step cautiously away from the doorway and step further into the building, leaving a dark trail of drops in your wake.

“Johann?”

How small your voice seems in comparison to the orchestra of sound raging outside.

When he steps out of the shadows, you can’t help but gasp. He’s like an apparition come alive, a shadow that has willed itself into flesh and blood. His green eyes burn even now, brighter than the small army of flickering golden flames. Wordlessly, he reaches out, taking your heavy cloak and fastidiously hangs it across one of the pews. You watch his hands as they spread out the damp material, the long fingers as they smooth out every crease. Something hot ignites inside you at the memory of those fingertips trailing ribbons of heat across your bare body.

As if he is able to read your sinful thoughts, he looks up and smiles slowly. “Liebling,” he murmurs in a voice smooth as honeyed wine, “You must forgive me. Had I known the weather would be this…..vicious, I would not have asked you to meet me.” 

There is no looking away from the gravity of his gaze, the celestial pull of those poison-green eyes. Your heart beats a wild rhythm in your chest, aching with longing, drumming with anticipation. 

“I would brave any weather, Johann, if it meant I could see you–”

Those words thunder in his ears and send an instant blitz of hunger through his veins. You’re still talking even as he moves towards you, his priestly robes swaying with the motion. He draws you to him, finally, finally, and swallows your words, drinking them down like the sweetest ambrosia. His kiss is crushing, his mouth demanding. You welcome it, sliding your arms around his neck as you yield to him, your body curving into his, softening to his demands. You never expected to fall for this man, this complicated being with his brilliant mind and ravenous appetite. 

Yet here you are, locked in his arms, trapped, stumbling your way across the aisle to one of the pews, your hand pushing through the dark sky of his hair. He sits, pulling you onto his lap, your skirt hiked up around your thighs. 

His hands are possessed, roaming impatiently over every bit of exposed skin. 

His hands are possessive, fingers digging into your flesh like a predator subduing its prey.

You revel in the power of his grip, the devotion of his tongue as it meets yours again and again. Outside, the night swells with the apex of the storm, the dark summer sky flashing pure white.

Inside the stone church, Faust growls your name....

....as you tug at his robes. 

....as he pushes you onto the pew, skirt shoved out of the way, and sinks to his knees before you. 

....as his sharp fangs bite into the soft skin of your thigh and his strong hands hold you in place.

....as the storm within suddenly howls, louder and more ferocious than anything happening outside.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

@redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @writingwhimsey @olivermorningstar

@mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight

@ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea

@chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja

@starlitmanor-network @sh0jun @fang-and-feather @bubblexly

[eternally-tired-muffin]

First off, I absolutely love the Hashira surplus AU. I see lots of somebody lived/everyone survived AUs since I have an Ao3 addiction, but none really go in the direction you’ve chosen. I think the idea of twin pillars is nice to think about, but unless they work best together and are messes without their other half it wouldn’t really make sense to just count them as one if they’re perfectly fine independently. Kind of like how Daki and Gyuutaro work in canon, I suppose. So if Sabito lived, he would undoubtedly become the Water Hashira first and end up leaving Giyuu at Kinoe despite him eventually catching up in strength and qualifications. Same with Shinobu, if Kanae survived then she wouldn’t have room to become a Hashira with the 9 max rule. All in all, I really like what you’ve done with it and how you’ve built off canon. I don’t have any direct questions, but definitely wouldn’t mind to read about anything you haven’t got a chance to share or small details you havent been able to fit anywhere! Have a good day/night and sorry for rambling lol-

AHHHHH THIS IS THE SWEETEST THING OMG T^T

I'm glad that you think this take on everyone lives makes sense! I tried to change 1 thing at the start and have the ripple effect come across naturally.

In terms of things to share, thank you so much for asking! This au is my baby so I'm thrilled to yap haha. I have a lot of projects I'm passionate about, so the actual drawings will come out very slowly, though I will answer asks and plot questions as they come. I'm currently working on the comic where Kanae meets Nezuko, so have a sneaky WIP page :P

The recent arc has also got me thinking about how the infinity castle arc changes.

MANGA SPOILERS FROM HERE!

I've decided to commit to saving everyone, as the core principle of this au, so the upper moon fights are going to go down differently. At the moment, I haven't fully decided, but my initial idea is this:

Instead of Giyuu, Sabito joins Tanjiro in fighting UM3. In canon, Giyuu acts as a parallel to Rengoku, with themes about weakness/strength and duty (who 'should' live). In this AU, Giyuu doesn't have the same survivor's guilt, and Rengoku doesn't die. As a result, it isn't thematically important for Giyuu to go up against Akaza. However, Sabito was present in the mugen train arc, and he narrowly survived the encounter. I think it makes sense for him to go up against Akaza with Tanjiro (who was stuck as a witness last time) and get to see how they've both grown - Tanjiro getting stronger and Sabito getting smarter. Maybe he learns Giyuu's defensive form?

Since Giyuu is free, I think he'd join in the UM1 fight. Having a defensive fighter could influence the battle. I have to be honest, I haven't reread this arc in a minute (so it is fresh when I watch the movie) so I can't quite remember how the fight goes down, but I think Giyuu would be there from the start. They just manage to keep themselves together as more allies join and overwhelm UM1.

I haven't used Rengoku here - I haven't decided his status after the mugen train arc. He lives, but I don't know if he is fit for battle. He may join Uzui and his father in protecting Nezuko. Perhaps he rallies the kakushi and the medical team with his large presence and still well above average physical abilities.

UM2 is a bit more complicated. Shinobu's drive for revenge is a key part of her character, but in this AU, Kanae survives. This is another thing not set in stone and may change. At the moment, I think in this AU, Douma has a habit of eating his victims alive. He taunted Kanae, managing to bite off her ear, so while Kanae manages to survive, she is truly affected by this fight. Shinobu despises him like in canon. In terms of the UM2 infinity castle fight, I'm not sure how to administer Shinobu's poison. It could be that Douma eats an arm or leg, but Kanae arrives in time to help. I'm also currently thinking that Aoi* might join Kanao.

*I haven't committed to her role yet (in addition to knowing basic medicine). She could be a poisons using demon slayer (like Shinobu) or someone who blended the role of demon slayer and kakushi - this is worth its own post though.

All of the speculation around the inifnity castle is just a draft, though! I would absolutely love to hear any suggestions/ ideas, so please feel free to reply/ reblog/ send an ask :D

AU masterpost

[alavestineneas]

The star reborn

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader summary: But most importantly, her eyes. Bloodshot. Sharp. Intelligent. The eyes he tried so hard to ignore, the eyes he will undoubtedly try as hard to forget—they are his eyes, even if the colour is different. Inside them, there's nothing of the person he painted or conditioned her to be—those eyes are neither of prey nor of a sheep. No, the dreamy, unblinking orbs are the curved mirrors reflecting the truth he fears to control. warnings: canon-typical violence, narcissism, character death, implied sex, implied/referenced suicide word count: 3,5K

PART 1 IS HERE

author's note: hiiii! chapter 2 is finally here!! please let me know what you think of it in the comments - I did leave my comfort zone a little with this one. also, it is kinda angsty - be sure to be in a right headspace before reading it. Love you - enjoy!!

The lights above her head shine with dull, warm colours, casting their heavy shadows on the green, heavily painted walls. The silver lining of the ceiling opposes almost sickening stuffiness. YN's eyes follow it through half-opened lids: hot and cold, the contrast so vibrant it hurts already irritated senses. Was it alcohol? The half-full bottle of sugary liquor stood as if trying to hide, beside the gigantic bed. It couldn't be; her body was long used to the fire spreading through its small canals. The feeling, although equally unpleasant, was different—like a hidden bruise she took too long to notice, its purple hands stretching down her abdomen.

It was supposed to be just a one-time thing, a job she could handle without any complaints—like she did every time. Maybe it was, but soon one time turned into twice a week, then whenever he felt like it. It was good, sensing the want, and need every time his figure appeared at the doorframe—almost too good. Staining her lips with taste, his taste, sending her head round and spinning. A twisted carousel with countless bed sheets, counters, and extravagant salons of the latest cars instead of smiling animal figures.

Coriolanus's breath was hot on her skin; his whispers marked it with unreadable praises that YN knew he didn't mean—they still landed right on her chest, sinking their way into her lungs and clouding the air her brain desperately needed. He curses and swears, so far from the professional persona he puts on every time he finishes. The feeling of cold, long fingers on her hips pulling YN's body closer turned into electric-like impulses, crashing into her flesh and mixing with the rhythm of her poor, booming heart.

It's easy to guess the patterns of his movements, his broad shoulders covering almost the entire room from her eyesight—a minute more, and all of YN's vision would be taken by the knitted blonde brows and silk-like lips. Coriolanus's eyes draw motifs on her bare body, drinking everything down to the slight twitches of her legs, but never meeting her own. She almost feels sad about the fact; after all, she deserves to see how they grow dark, changing from sky-like blue to almost sapphire, heaving along with his breathing.

His hand changes its position, clasping YN's throat instead of the bedframe. It's brutal and animalistic to feel him holding onto the last bits of self-control to not let his guard down completely, in an attempt to regain the power back. YN closes her eyes—the sensation of his trembling limb is poisoning her insides with the sweetest taste of fear. The heartbeat in her temples, echoing in the empty chamber of her chest—the tempo of prey running from its hunter, the pace of the chase of an illusive prize. She feels Coriolanus twitch, the grip tightening along with her before finally relaxing. Caught. Eaten.

She doesn't mind the feeling of heaviness his body seems to plant in her own; he lays his head near, chest rising and falling, the smug, satisfied ghost of a smirk lingering on his swollen lips. YN doesn't remember when exactly she became content with it; it seems something inside of her has always craved him. Coriolanus squints his eyes under the light of the ceiling lamps, but all she sees is a wolf. A hunter sizing up the sheep before sinking his white, pearly teeth in the soft waves of flesh. Now, he is full, although no one knows for how long. YN guesses the hunger never entirely goes away.

Hers doesn't. She devours until she's sick, and does it again, again and again. His touch is too much, and YN wants to leave, hide, and scrub it off until her fingers bleed—and at the same time, she craves it more than anything. If he is a hunter, what does that make her? Prey. Deer. But does the prey have teeth as sharp as she does? Does she bite as often, tearing her way to survival? Maybe, and maybe not—YN is never in the habit of putting a label on her head and eating at it until there is nothing left of her but a hollow shell.

''Is there something wrong?''

YN almost cringes at the sound of her voice; its sound travels the room, circling the bed she was lucky to call her escape before finally landing on the tip of Coriolanus's tongue. He doesn't turn to her, taking in the ball of nerves she called a question before answering.

''The reviews of Games become more and more disappointing—game makers, although they change each other quickly, don't bring anything new. People don't want to watch.''

The hum of understanding escapes YN's dried lips before she can think twice about it. Coriolanus leaves her mind a dessert, an arena she thought she left behind, left as a victor, making her fight for existence once more. His next words prove it.

''You gave a show with all the weaponry skills, especially because they aren't typical for your district. How?''

She shouldn't feel pride in what sounded more like an interrogation, but YN never liked to do as she should've—that's why her naked body is now interwoven with his, the rising heartbeat in her ribcage sending waves to his fingertips. ''I trained with stones and butter knives. When you learn how to kill a bird with them, the human body is nothing.''

Coriolanus chuckles, the deep vibration resonating against her head on his chest. ''Impressive. But why risk getting caught preparing for something that might never happen to you?''

Maybe it's the way his hands draw circles around the lines of her neck, or maybe it's the way the lights flicker, but the slumped words from YN's mouth become more difficult to pronounce. ''You see the games as punishment, but the real punishment is life outside them—the arena is a golden ticket, and to compete is a privilege. Once more people get that into their heads, they will fight to even have a chance to put on a show for you. Of course, if you turn a blind eye to the preparations: can't impress with excessive knowledge of gemstones or fabrics, can you?''

His silence could've meant a lot to people who didn't know better, but the slight, almost invisible nod of the blonde-crowned head suggested understanding. If YN had been a little more attentive, she would've noticed the subtle shift in his pose. That way, the voice booming into her ear wouldn't have caught her by surprise.

''Turn on your stomach.'' Coriolanus only commands, and never asks. His pale cheeks are not yet free from colour, and the glimmer in his eyes reeks of determination.

YN wants to refuse; she wants to open her mouth and bite him right where a vital vein pulsates on his neck, draining the life force mixed with the scent of his bitter cologne. She doesn't; she hides her teeth in the silk pillowcase, its soft fabric making a home in her opened mouth. It wasn't the closure she craved, but YN knew better. You take what you can get, and with Coriolanus, you take what he gives. She needs to be adored, to be worshipped—he turns a blind eye to her every time he gets what he wants. Maybe that's what she gets for loving a man like him—he knows she is just a woman and tolerates her despite that. In the end, it doesn't really matter; he is still a god, and she is still on her knees, begging until they grow raw.

-

It was harmless fun at first to have her around. In addition to his small collection, a limited edition of the human she was—the whole world underneath her pretty heel, her eyes only on him. It fed his ego; Coriolanus will admit that much. Like a golden watch on his left hand or a new-tinted car, YN revolved around him. An ode to status, a testament to his power. But all things have to end—the lights are turned off after the long day of work, and the plates are cleaned after dinner.

He watches the buildings change rapidly, their warm windows mixing with tall structures of concrete. Even now, in a silent car, he finds their ever-changing looks captivating—the city jungle is never asleep, its loud voices covering the streets with a thick coat of isolation. Among men, he still stood alone. Undefeated. Victorious. Coriolanus doesn't bother to turn to the woman beside him. He played this conversation in his head too many times; now, there is nothing of the initial curiosity that used to sparkle. ''I think it would be better if we stopped seeing each other; the press is too relentless, and it's becoming dangerous for our image.''

He doesn't even have to come up with something plausible—rumours are circling of a ''new mysterious man" who was seeing the Panem's favourite star. But no one suspected it was him, and even if they did, who would dare to question him? The reason behind his decision is less poetic—the one he is somewhat reluctant to admit, even to himself.

''What?''

Her voice cuts the air, pulling Coriolanus out of his thoughts. He almost feels her figure tense up, her manicured hand gripping a stunning purse with all the power she has. It looks like claws, which he notices with humour. He imagines the same nails digging into the skin on his back, just like they did a few nights ago; the feeling sends a pleasant wave down his spine. ''You will continue with modelling and photoshoots, just like before. It even might be better—there are a couple of new projects I want you to take on.''

''Do these ''projects'' include other men that you promised to keep me safe from?''

She is mad. Coriolanus, it seems, tastes the venom dripping from her painted lips on his tongue, its bitter acids burning his throat. Maybe it's that lingering sensation, or maybe it's the air conditioning in the car—his body grows a little hot, and his head turns a lot more annoyed. He swallows; the car is almost at the mansion's driveway. A few more minutes and a starch of fresh air will get to his lungs.

YN doesn't wait for the car to fully stop; she opens the door abruptly and closes it right in his face, her boots stomping on the expensive lawn, leaving small holes in the green scenery. Her long coat flies as she walks, ignoring the shouts he throws her way. The wind, or him, leaves her eyes watery; the thick black mascara is already smudging and creasing under her beautiful lashes.

''YN! YN, wait! Woman, why won't you stop for just a fucking second?''

She doesn't answer, pushing through the buttler into the huge hall and throwing the leather bag onto the grand staircase. Fleeing, escaping—the actions stir something in Coriolanus—a mixture of anger and strange excitement. He grabs her by the shoulder, showing her back, but YN twists away, turning to face him instead.

''Why won't I stop? You are planning on leaving me, on selling me like a used car, and you have the audacity to ask me to stop?''

''YN, darling, let's just quit shouting for a second; you are overreacting.''

''Me?'' Her eyes are mad, maniac—nothing of the stoic beauty he is so used to enjoying. She yells, backing her way into the living room and throwing anything that gets under her hand at him. Coriolanus watches as the books, vases, and small statues fly over and into him, crashing against the walls and crashing into small pieces. ''I am overreacting, asshole? I have given you everything I had, every fucking piece of me that you wanted, and now you demand that I stop?''

He only plants his feet and abandons chasing her when the coffee table is in her hands, its golden lining matching the buttons on her blouse. Coriolanus lifts his hands in surrender; they both know she is not above launching it at him. So, he leaves her be.

YN's figure slides down the wall, her body trembling with anger and cries. They echo inside his head, a strange melody of defeat and desperation. Coriolanus watches her from a safe distance on the sofa, his head resting against the soft pillows. He can wait—this is likely the last time he gets to admire the beauty the world has graced her with.

The carefully styled hair that now resembled nothing of its original form, the freshly applied makeup that now streaked across her face. Even the way her neck bends to allow her a better view of him. YN's gaze follows his every move—it seems one wrong step—and the newly bestowed stillness will flee from his grasp again.

But most importantly, her eyes. Bloodshot. Sharp. Intelligent. The eyes he tried so hard to ignore, the eyes he will undoubtedly try as hard to forget—they are his eyes, even if the colour is different. Inside them, there's nothing of the person he painted or conditioned her to be—those eyes are neither of prey nor of a sheep. No, the dreamy, unblinking orbs are the curved mirrors reflecting the truth he fears to control. Coriolanus desires her; Coriolanus requires her; and if there is a want, there is a need. That's why he doesn't wish to see her anymore; if he does, she will eat him alive.

''Don't leave me,'' YN's voice is a siren's call, softer than any other sound. She crawls to him, carefully placing her head on his lap, searching for something, anything, on his face.

''You should get help, darling, for a little bit. What do you say? A nice place near the mountains—just a few months to wait for the press out.''

YN looks up at him, her face deprived of any emotion. ''Promise you will have me back?''

Coriolanus just nods, his large hand running down her back. The matter is already decided. He is not safe just because he owns her. If YN feels like it, she will stain her mouth with his blood, too.

-

''Hi Maggie!''

YN's voice booms through the speaker of the phone Mags holds tightly to her ear; finally, her friend is allowed to answer her calls. ''Hi! How are you? Are they feeding you well?''

That's probably not true—the mental health institutions have a history of underfunding, but Mags hopes Mr President was kind enough to choose a better place for his ex-mistress. She wasn't shocked when she heard of YN's mental breakdown; on the contrary, Mags thinks the hospital is just what her friend might need—the life of a victor isn't all glamour.

''Good enough! You know I can't put on too much weight; the designers won't forgive me for that!''

She sounds happy over the phone like this—if she is, Mags is too, no matter how much she wants to cry at the sound of her voice.

''Did he say something about me?''

Mags knows who she is asking about but hesitates to answer. She doesn't have the heart to tell her that the Snow family just announced the pregnancy of his wife, so she does what any good friend would do—Mags lies. ''I don't think so. But! The new law was just put in place—1, 2, and 4 are allowed to train their tributes from now on!''

''Oh, that is wonderful! Maggie, I am so sorry, but I have to go now. I promised I would help with books in the library. But I will call you as soon as I can!''

''I'll be waiting, YN. Be on your best behaviour; I would like to see my best friend soon!''

YN laughs. It's not very clear, but the warmth radiating from it translates definitely. ''I would never leave you, Maggie. Even as a ghost, you will never get rid of me—not for a moment.''

Mags hopes it's true. It's hard being YN's friend sometimes, but no one deserves to be alone in this cruel world. The phone call ends before she can answer; all that is left are long beeps.

-

The same beeps she is left with after the next call. It is answered by a different voice; this one is more mature and not as lively at all.

''We are sorry to inform you that Miss YLN lost her battle to depression on Friday, the 25th, at…''

Mags doesn't listen after that; she throws the phone across the room, bringing yet another death to delicate machinery. She has no point in keeping it in her house now for a simple, mundane reason: there is no one left to call. That is when the feeling she tried so hard to escape all her life finally nestled in her stomach, swallowing her from the inside. Hatred.

She hates the games, Panem, the Capitol, and the people who live there. Hates newspapers, hates tabloids, and hates interviewers—the people flooding the centre where the funeral is held. She doesn't want to see any of them—to see them cry and hug, whisper and tell long speeches about a person they murdered—YN didn't know any of their names, yet somehow all of them ''grieve with the world at the loss of their dearest friend''. But most of all, she hated the one who didn't even bother to show up, the one who had caused all of this.

Mags doesn't even bother remembering her own pain; it is greatly overshadowed by the cold body of her friend in a coffin she would've hated—nothing bored YN more than simple colours and ''refined tastes''. If Mags could, she would've filled the room with clashy patterns and as many shiny things as possible and served the cheapest burgers one could find in Capitol—just how she liked it. But all she can do is stare at the cold ground and a freshly planted bush of pearly-white roses on top of it. Her hands itch to dig it up, to stomp on it and replace it with something else—she doesn't. YN would've wanted them to stay.

She told her that one time, a year or two after her death—every time she appeared at its anniversary, exactly a month before the reaping. The first time Mags saw her, she thought she was going insane, but then the fear adjusted to never-changing grief. YN was harmless, even kind, although she communicated only with hand gestures—those are the rules, she told her, and rules should be followed.

The sky already grows dark, but YN hasn't shown up yet - Mags is too tired of a long day of teaching in the academy to ponder why. Maybe, after the fifty years that passed since, her friend finally found her peace. If so, Mags is happy for her. She can't wait anymore—the old woman picks up a coat from the locker and puts it on, closing the classroom before starting her journey to the exit.

The halls of the training grounds are empty; all of the children have already gone home. It pains Mags to remember who inspired the careers, and it fills her heart with immense pride at the same time. YN, to this day, is the golden standard of tribute; she is forgotten, neither by the people of Capitol nor by her own. Mags can't even count how many times the young victors of one hesitantly came to her with an old magazine in hand, asking to share something about their idol's life. She would often only smile; those children learned it by themselves sooner than she would like them to, most suffering the exact fate at the hands of the same man. The only thing that brought hope to Mags's heart was her declining health; she was getting older, and so was Coriolanus Snow. And as much as he would like, no one was immortal; he would pay for all the deaths on his hands, she would make sure of that.

''Excuse me, Miss?''

''Yes?'' Mags thinks that she heard it wrong and that her hearing is getting worse. But no—a boy, not younger than fourteen—leaves his spot at the bench near the gates and stands up, coming closer.

''Are you Maggie?'' The childish voice contrasts with the muscular build; the boy is definitely a student. ''I was just practising knots when Miss came up to me and said Maggie could help with that.''

The air leaves her lungs suddenly. Mags grips onto the coat, her hands desperatly in search of the headache pills. It all must just be her imagination, right? But the boy looks real, studying her face in curiosity. ''What woman?'' she finally breathes out.

''I don't know,'' the boy shrugs. ''Not from here. In a pretty white dress with stars on it. I asked her where she bought it, but she just laughed.''

Mags smiles weakly—that does sound like something YN would do. ''Did she say anything else?''

''Yeah!'' The boy beams excitedly, showing a missing-tooth grin. ''She said I will be the brightest star there ever was if I work hard enough!''

''That sounds about right," Mags says, her voice filled with nostalgia. "You know what? Find me tomorrow after your classes - I'll help you with knots. What was your name again?''

''Finnick, Miss. And thank you!'' The boy turns on his feet, not listening to whatever she has to say, and hurries home. ''Bye Miss Maggie!'' he shouts on his way before disappearing in the maze of brick buildings.

An impulse to correct him and remind him that her name is ''Mags'' crosses her mind, but she decides against it. After all, the name was too special to forget. The stillness of the evening lands on Mags' shoulders, and she continues the way to the victor's village. She has a lot to do - the 65th games are starting in a month, and then she will have a chance to finally rest. 

[aew-kun-age-regression]

I have a Harry Potter agere idea!!!

Well, technically it's in the marauders era

Cg!Remus or Cg!Sirius (or both, whichever you prefer) with a regressed!reader, who wants to pet literally ANYTHING.

A very poisonous snake, that could kill you if it bites? Reader wants to pet it, while Remus/Sirius is having a heart attack and keeps reader away.

Remus in wolf form? Pet him.

Sirius in his dog form? Pet him.

Just some fluff/crack🙈

I love this idea, it is a hilarious idea! I hope I've done this idea justice! Apologies it's so short and that there's no dialogue, every time I tried to add some it felt weird, like it shouldn't be there. So I just stuck to description for this one 😅

Pairings: Caregiver!Sirius Black, Caregiver!Remus Lupin x Little!Reader

Summary: You have no sense of what animals are dangerous and which are not, good thing your wonderful caregivers are there.

Warnings: Mentions of Remus being a Wolf and Sirius being an animagus. Mentions of *the* prank. Mentions of little being around dangerous animals.

(Gender Neutral Reader)

‼️THIS IS NOT NSFW‼️

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NOT Proofread

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It wasn't uncommon for you to find random animals within the castle and befriend them however whilst regressed you had a habit to forget how dangerous some animals were. Your poor caregivers Sirius and Remus have nearly had many heart attacks due to finding you holding random animals. The most recent one had been a snake, you'd learnt about it briefly in one of your lessons, not that you could remember which one. You couldn't even remember the snake that was currently happily sitting in your hands was deadly. Remus ended up carefully taking the snake from your hands whilst Sirius took you to wash your hands, but it was safe to say that both boys were shocked at how you were not injured by any animals that you had befriended in your time at Hogwarts.

Well that was until you had found out that Sirius was an animagus and Remus was a wolf. They'd noticed that they felt strangely safe and calm around you.

Remus had noticed first. In fact it was during the prank that he noticed. It had all gone wrong, you were supposed to be asleep but you had decided you wanted to go for a walk around outside the castle. You'd wandered too far and had ended up in front of Remus, who was a wolf. Surprisingly Remus had calmed down. No one knew how you did it but it sure made that time of the month a lot more bearable when Remus had a way to calm down.

Sirius had also noticed it. He and the other marauders had got in trouble and therefore weren't allowed to go to Hogsmead. Sirius snuck out anyways whilst the others stayed so he could make sure you were okay. He decided (so he didn't get caught) to go in dog form. Within 20 minutes of following you you had noticed him, not yet knowing it was Sirius. You approached him and let the 'unknown' dog come to you. He went towards you, feeling calm as you stretched your arm out to lightly pet his head.

Neither Sirius nor Remus could ever figure out why you had this calming effect on animals but what they did know is that they believed you truly were the sweetest. Most animals seemed to agree too...

[autisticlenaluthor]

Lena

a continuation of 'music'

-

Lacy, oh Lacy, skin like puff pastry Aren't you the sweetest thing on this side of Hell? Dear angel Lacy, eyes white as daisies Did I ever tell you that I’m not doin' well?

-

Lena’s existence is split into a series of moments. Like clips of a film, cut up and taped together— the footnotes of her life. 

There’s before Lex. There’s during him. But at fifteen years old, when the entire world knows and despises his name, she isn’t sure if there will ever be an after.  

All she knows is she wants to be more than who she is. More than this subpar, doormat of a girl. 

And when the mental cuts start to run too deep and it feels like the walls are closing in; like her brother has stolen all the oxygen in the world and the only way to breathe again would be in his absence, Lena tries to imagine what that might look like. Tries to picture a world where she’s on her own— without any of the Luthors. She’d be somewhere in the city — in an apartment, a brownstone, a hotel, on the street, it doesn’t matter where. So long as she’s by herself. 

But as Lillian never fails to remind her, her dreams are just dreams. And while Lena’s used to the cracks in the sidewalks– she’s getting pretty sick and tired of waiting for flowers to grow between them. 

Some days, it feels like Lena's the one splitting into two. 

She isn’t crass enough, isn’t smart enough, isn’t confident enough to properly carry the Luthor name. She isn’t fast enough, isn’t savvy enough, isn’t sharp enough. She’s a prodigy, sure, but where does that get you once you’re no longer a child? Intellect is impressive at seven but at twenty, expected.

At fifteen, Lena’s a circus animal who’s been paraded a year past their prime. 

But in the real world– the world that isn’t run by her parents (although, it’s debatable that anything isn’t) Lena is all too much a Luthor. She has their dark hair and stoic, statue-like stares. She has the education, the upbringing, and the double L name to prove it. It doesn’t matter that she’s adopted, it doesn’t matter that she’ll never be enough– she’s already too much. 

So maybe she shouldn’t be surprised when Kara leaves her alone in Glacier Park to finish picking up trash. She shouldn’t be surprised that Kara finds her just as repulsive as the rest of the world and just as disappointing as her parents do. That part should’ve been predictable. 

But the part where Kara didn’t recognize her name… where she seemed excited, almost, to work with her– that was where Lena should’ve known it was too good to be true. 

She’s a Luthor after all. Poisonous and weak. 

So Lena does what she’s supposed to (just as she always does) and cleans the park on her own. She finishes the paper which she submits with Karas’s name ahead of hers and tells herself at least she never has to see her again. They’ll both get the extra credit that Lena doesn’t need and maybe when Kara sees those five points tacked onto her midterm, she’ll hate her 5% less than she does now. 

But of course, things never go as planned.

Only a week goes by before they see each other again. 

It happens at a coffee shop three blocks from Lena’s school. She’s walking through the doors, arms overstuffed with textbooks and as she focuses her thoughts on how she’s going to balance the AP World History DBQ with studying for her AP chemistry final, Kara crashes into her. 

In a second, the books topple out of Lena’s arms and a whir of blonde hair whips down in front of her as the culprit scrambles to pick them all up. 

“Golly– I’m so sorry, I–” she stammers. Arms move faster than should be humanly possible to grab them.  “That was all my fault.”

Frozen, Lena watches as the girl pops back up. And when she does– the apologetic expression Kara’s wearing goes from concerned to confused.

“Lena…” 

Lena’s lips purse into a line. It’s a fake. An uncomfortable, half-smile as Lena carefully takes the first book from Kara’s hand. She nods slightly but doesn’t say anything.

The sight of her– the glasses and ponytail and her ridiculous Superman symbol necklace, is just too much. The paper is done, the project is done, which means they were never supposed to see each other again. This isn’t in the rules– this isn’t any part of it. 

“I…” Kara stops and starts. Her mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Like she’s waiting for words that won’t come. 

After a second, she adjusts her backpack straps and shifts her weight between her heels, slowly looking Lena up and down. It doesn’t seem judgemental but then again, Lena can never tell.

In her Spence crewneck and skirt, she’s never felt so exposed. 

So she reaches out, takes the rest of the books, and walks right back out the door. It might be rude but she doesn’t care. She’ll get coffee someplace else. She’ll find a new spot and this time, when she says she’ll never see this girl again, it’ll be for real. 

But they find each other again at a museum five days later. 

It’s for a school trip. Toward the middle of October, they all shut down to the public, allowing Metropolis’ various high schools to occupy them for the day. Spence takes all the sophomores to the history museum where they’re split into groups of five- each assigned different sections of the museum to visit and exhibits to take notes on. They’re supposed to connect it back to what they’ve been learning in class and maybe prove that ‘advanced placement’ courses serve a real purpose other than the prestigious name. 

Lena’s group is given various historical leaders to study. The other girls joke about how she better not get any ideas, then conveniently forget to tell her when they’re moving from the exhibit on the Zhou Dynasty to the Egyptian wing.

That’s where Kara finds her half an hour later. 

Lena’s sitting on one of the benches towards the center of the room, bent over her notebook, lazily scribbling onto her worksheet. The room is dark and quiet, with dim lights gently illuminating the art and artifacts. Other than a few students from other schools scattered about, they’re completely alone. 

At first, Lena doesn’t notice her presence. 

She’s too focused. She’s caught back up in her runaway fantasy, wondering, if she didn’t leave with the rest of the kids– would anyone notice she’d disappeared? She knows that kind of thinking isn’t productive. She shouldn’t be fantasizing when she has work to do, but the city’s so packed she’d be just another drop in the ocean. And oh how tempting it is– to feel what it would be like to finally blend in with the crowd. 

After a moment, Lena lifts her head. 

Kara is sitting on the other end of the bench, leaning all her weight into her hands as she stares ahead of her. 

Lena can’t help but look at her. Even though she knows she shouldn’t, even though she knows Kara doesn’t want to see her. In the warm-lit room, surrounded by artifacts from hundreds of years ago, it’s the only thing Lena knows how to do. 

She doesn’t pull herself back to her notebook until Kara notices returns her gaze.

Lena pretends to be fascinated with her work, only dropping the act when she runs out of space on her paper to write. She sighs, defeated, and sets her pen down beside her.

That’s when Kara finally speaks.

“Why aren’t you with your school?” she asks, her voice so much quieter than Lena expects. 

She looks up again, away from her paper and straight ahead, then shrugs. 

“Why aren’t you with yours?” 

“We just… got separated.” 

Lena nods. 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

“Oh.” Kara pauses, glancing over at Lena’s worksheet. “What are you working on?”

“AP World notes.” 

She tilts her paper so Kara can see– the page entirely filled with bulleted annotations. 

“Your handwriting is so pretty.” 

Lena smiles. “Thank you.” 

After that, she stays quiet. She needs to see where Kara’s going to take this– even if inside, she’s whirring with things to say.

“I um… I’m sorry for leaving you.” 

The statement seem to come out of nowhere. Confused, Lena furrows her brow. 

“What?” She asks. 

“At the park,” Kara clarifies. “That was just– it wasn’t a nice thing to do. I- I mean, I know you said I could… but still.” 

“Oh… right.” 

Ducking her head, Lena picks at the skin around her nails. 

“And thank you for finishing the paper,” Kara adds. “It was really good.”

Lena doesn’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t know what to do with any of it, really. 

When it comes to her and her family– the rest of the world tends to be incredibly black and white. There are the people who call Lex a terrorist and her mother a vicious traitor. The ones who say her father was so corrupt with capitalist greed that his untimley death could evoke no symptahy because someone like him deserved nothing more.

There are the girls who hide the dead animals kept in the science lab for disection in Lenas locker. The ones who say she deserves it– after all, she’s just like the rest of them. 

And then there are the people who’d follow her brother off the ends of the Earth if they could. The people who really did die in their attempts to help him on his tirade across so called ‘Earth traitors’. 

Those were the ones who hid behind bushes to take photos of her as she left school because they couldn’t wait to brag about how they’d seen the Lex Luthor’s sister in the flesh. 

But Kara seems to fall somewhere between those two groups. And while Lena can handle the two extremes, she doesn’t have any real experience with someone in the middle. 

“Yeah…” she breathes. “Of course.” 

Before she can say anything else, or even gather her thoughts, Kara has stood up. 

“I um, I should get back to my class,” she says. “It was nice to see you again.”

"Yeah... nice to see you too."

[lurantis1]

THEY’RE HERE FOR THE MEETING!!!

(Their names are Mary and Teddie btw! They’re ghosts who died in the 1890’s. Teddie died from getting poisoned and Mary died from Tuberculosis. Teddie is supposed to have marks under his mouth like Mary but I forgor to draw them)

AWWWWW TEDDIE LOOKS LIKE THE SWEETEST LIL GENTLEMAN EVER 🫶🫶

(Also. BRO WAS A LUCKY MAN-)

[xbalayage]

Last Night

Silvio/Reader Angst WC: 1,107 A/N: From the perspective that Silvio didn't change from the initial way we were introduced to him as but still fell for the charm he held anyways. It's tame while he's sober but during nights of drinking when things are supposed to be fun, he's drank way too much and it comes out with a force. Inspired by a song I listened too - pretty sure anyone could potentially guess what song it is.

[ - - . - - - . - - - . - - ]

Frivolous parties were what this kingdom was known for; constant music, extravagant sights, the liveliness was unparalleled to any other kingdom in comparison. But when they swam in untold fortunes and had a flourishing economy of frequent trade, why wouldn't they? Last night was no different - they'd spend it together under the glittering lights of a balcony, indulging in the finest wines and liqueur but food went untouched as she stared blankly off into the distance, no longer even listening to the words coming from his mouth. He was feeling it a bit more than her and that was saying something for once.

Incredibly insensitive and rude comments escaped past in his drunken haze all while wrapped around his smug smile, not even realizing the damage he'd be creating. She told him time and time again, yet she kept her rage to herself, focusing on the dazzling glow of lights with her hand cupping to support her chin. Radiant eyes refused to look his way. Now wasn't the time to stem out in that kind of talk, but she couldn't help the underlying resentment that whispered past her lips. "--I wish you were somebody I never met."

He heard it, of course he did. But, surely, she didn't mean that. Just like tonight's affairs, it was just the alcohol talking. She loved him. It was just one mistake he'd apologize for and wouldn't do again.

Right?

Just earlier that night when the mood was right, they both had their cheeks flushed with the passion they shared as she gripped the sea of sheets to their bed, crying out his name that he drank up like the sweetest song he's ever heard. Settled in what felt like miles of robes, she sat in his lap, fingers curved into his hair as they gaze lovingly into each others eyes. No one would know the wiser that they'd ever fight. Splitting a drink shared between kiss bruised lips, promising futures they'd hope to keep and sharing secrets of life that'd been left unspoken.

How did it come to this?

Their regular banter now turned into a verbal sword fight of who's right or wrong, positioning their sharpened words into the most vulnerable spots to hurt. He yells over her, she yells over him - neither of them were listening. The verbal warfare leaves a lasting scar forever etched into her mind, while he simply forgets like it never happened; like the wine wasn't laced with poison and shifted their tongues into pitchforks of hate. She couldn't bare another night like tonight.

Tonight was no different from other nights - she just refused to indulge in a fruitless endeavor after fighting. He's completely hammered and not listening to reason, or paying attention to those nasty comments he keeps spewing. Rio was right, and she should've listened sooner but that damn heart of hers always tried to see it through. 'Just let him go. He'll grow a pair and see how much of an asshole he's been once you finally leave him' his words rang fresh in her mind, trying to blink away the tears by the thought of the truth.

Silence beat in her ears for a few moments before her gaze turned back to him, curious to know why everything all at once seemed to stop. Like time had frozen in the moment to give her a reprieve to run. Her eyes met a passed out figure, snoring as he laid lazily in his chair. The urge to punch him square in the jaw but kiss his stupid face at the same time was too strong - she had to shake her head and stand, heading inside to pack her most treasured things.

Finally, she had enough. This would be the last night she would endure this. But she couldn't leave, not like this. Scrambling to find a pen and paper, her letter stated words intertwined with both love and sorrow; when their love was great, it was great - but when it was bad, it was like inhaling water with a ball and chain strapped around the ankle, pulling her down to the depths of her death. She undone the collar around her neck that she both hated and adored for multiple reasons, looking over once more at his slumped body on the balcony before resting the item with the note on the bed covers.

And almost as if he'd been listening in, Rio was at the door once she opened it, staring deep into her tear stained eyes that ran past her cheeks. His eyes gazed down at her luggage in hand before reaching her face again. No words were spoken, just a simple nob and Rio knew. He knew it was finally time. Her eyes turned once more for the last time at the man she loved the most, her heart ached - but she had to put a mental foot down; she couldn't change a man that didn't want to change. Or didn't know how to, even with her gentle guidance.

With her resolve strong, she slammed the door as she left, her resentment staying to linger in the absent room. He was too out of it, a simple action like that wouldn't have awoken him. She left, to never return.

Morning broke as he woke up, his body sore and mind swirling with no recollection of the previous night. He found himself on the floor, chair sprawled off to the side, empty wine bottle littered the floor. He lifted his head to find the food untouched on the table. His first thought was her, but he couldn't find her anywhere even when calling her name. As he got up slowly, he scratched at his head and groaned. Finally able to stand on his feet, he noticed a note and her collar placed on the bedding.

He read the note with a heavy heart; had he gone too far last night? What had he done? What had he said for her to have to write a note, leave behind the present he got her and vacate all her belongings as well, to leave in the middle of the night? For her to finally leave him. He gritted his teeth and held the note close to his chest, his other hand thumbing the beautiful collar that glittered in the sunlight. His eyebrows furrowed as hurt ridden eyes stare at the rising sun longingly.

Something told him that this wasn't the end of them, he held onto the hope that she'd forgive him. That she would come back to his side. This couldn't be. There's no way... that this was their last night.

taglist; @nightghoul381, @yvelk, @celiciaa, @drachonia, @alvieeru, @aquagirl1978, @here-for-gilbert, @widowbunny, @exhausted-courtroom-mom, @randonauticrap, @maries-gallery, @violettduchess, @strawberry-scum

[bau-drabbles]

oooo how about where the reader begins to find out that aaron isnt for her? love your works! 💗💗

i loved this one, thank you for asking :') hope you enjoy it, it's slightly different and very rushed ☠ <3

sweetest oblivion

aaron hotchner.

the name itself was enough to send a flurry of pesky butterflies invade your lower abdomen, goosebumps prickling their way on to your skin, a smile so unmovable only reserved for him. for every corner of your heart adored him. in a field of fields, he was the largest field. in a fields of moons, he was the most moons. you could've looked at him for one minute and found one million things you loved. and it was well, it was perfect.

then it had started

little fractures, little shatters in the mask. they were so small, barely noticeable but it began to question whether you really knew him. a burning questions your lips desired to ask but you weren't sure if the answer would drown and devour you whole. so instead you pretended it never existed.

he was aaron hotchner, the love of your life. right?

in your ignorance however, you seemed to forget how easily things could be snatched away from you. piece by piece, everything around you falls. it was all an abyss, a mirage you had created. the beautiful picture perfect world you had created all but crumbled underneath you. you couldn't even look at hotch anymore, being in the same place as him felt like a constant challenge. mustering up courage to even look at him in the eyes was enough to send you running for the hills

only a few weeks ago, he was your prince charming. he was your shining white kmohht in armour, ready to protect you from the world. he had managed to whisk you away to a beautiful land, a happy place you didn't want to ever let go of.

you didn't want to believe there were cracks in the facade you both played so well, seeing them fester and grow beyond repair. forcing you to see the true reality of the situation. that you and hotch just weren't compatible, he wasn't yours to have nor to cherish.

could you love a man like him? could you see the true version of him and adore it?

"you ready?" he smiles, his dimples deepening as he pecks your cheeks. his voice shakes you out of your thoughts and you could barely look at him without wanting to recoil. so instead you look straight ahead, nodding slowly. regaining your control felt difficult, the man beside you caused you nothing but pain and misery. was it better to be alone and safe or together and vulnerable?

you hummed your response, ever so slightly shifting away from him. he caught on the cold shoulder you were giving but the elevator door pinged open and before he could look at you there you were, almost jogging to your office.

was this love? was this how love was supposed to feel? it felt like you were drowning in your anguish, that this man was the same one you had fell in love with. it felt impossible to stir any attraction within you for hotch, was he worthy of such a thing? did he even deserve it? but your mouth daren't speaks its truth, forcing you to swallow all your poisoned thoughts that threatened to burst open within you.

you could pretend for another day, until you had the strength to leave him forever

[froggyfics]

The Deadliest Poisons Are The Sweetest - 2

You come face-to-face with your future.

(09/15/23) Note: If you have read this chapter before this date, please note that I have combined chapters 1 and 2 together. This may seem confusing, but I have decided that as a creative approach, I would like the chapters to be longer. This used to be chapter 3, now it is chapter 2.

For those that don't know, the base of operations for the League of Assassins is called 'Eth Alth'eban. The capital of 'Eth Alth'eban in this fic is Gotham. Don't ask me why, it just is.

Feedback is always appreciated. Feel free to message me privately or comment below to let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome!

Word Count: 1,912

The ride to the capital is long and difficult. The idea of marrying the prince eventually solidifies, but your nervousness increases day-by-day, peaking on the day of your arrival. A long procession greets the several carriages that contain you and your brood. Citizens of the capital have lined the streets, shouting in excitement. Many bang on the carriage to catch a glimpse of the future princess, jerking the vehicle, but hordes of soldiers do well to protect you. 

A deep sigh escapes your mouth, which alerts your family to your despondency.

An arm drapes across your shoulder and you look up to see your father embracing you. You snuggle into his shoulder, holding onto his vest, savoring these few previous moments before adulthood comes crashing down upon you.

“How are you feeling?” your mother asks. 

You pause to think of a word that could encompass all of what you feel. “Nervous? Scared? Just…surprised, I suppose.”

Your mother tuts in agreement and reaches over to place a comforting hand over your knee. 

“Why are you so surprised, little sister? After all, you did accept the prince’s proposal when it arrived,” your brother joins in nonchalantly. “Ow!”

He was met with a smack on his head from your mother. “You fool!” she shouts. “Of course, she accepted Prince Damian’s proposal! Every maiden in the realm did! He is the prince! We would have insulted our monarchs had we not accepted. And besides, who in their right mind would have thought that he would actually agree to this union?!”

He grips his head in pain and shirks further into his seat, hoping to be swallowed by it. For the first time in weeks, you smile genuinely. Within moments however, sadness overwhelms you as you realize that the day is fast approaching when you will no longer be a constant witness to these sorts of shenanigans. Your family will return to your homeland, and you will be left here, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. The happy moment passes, and you revert to your solemn outlook. 

The crowd slims down the closer you get to the castle. You gulp loudly, and your father grabs your hand. You gaze up at him in terror of the unknown, but he avoids your face. There is nothing you can do, but sit back against the velvet seats and wait.

The carriage swerves slightly, and you dare to draw back the curtain covering the window, gasping loudly at the sight. 

The castle is even more grand and beautiful than you remember. You spent a few weeks at the Al Ghul’s castle when you accompanied your father to the capital as a young child. The memories of those days have long evaded you for years, but they are now coming back with a vengeance.

“Oh, my!” your mother exclaims. Her hand covers her mouth in amazement. She turns to look at you excitedly. “Do you think the wedding will be held here or at another location?”

Before you cannot even open your mouth to reply, the carriage jolts to a stop. You nearly slip off the seat, but your father catches you by the arms. The door opens and the footman once again offers your hand.

You are so nervous that you shake your head at him. “N – no,” you meekly say.  

Tenderly grabbing your shoulders, you father whispers, “Yes, my dear,” before gently shoving you towards the exit. You nearly fall off the steps that have been placed in front of the carriage to help with your descent. Your eyes remain glued to the ground as you wait for your family to exit, too. 

After your family disembarks from the carriages, the footman announces your presence loudly. You uncomfortably shift as the midday sun bears down on your scalp. The footman announces the title and name of every person in your party and then proceeds to announce the presence of your future-in-laws. King R’as Al Ghul, the Demon’s Head, long may he live. Princess Talia Al Ghul, the daughter of the Demon’s Head, long may she live. Prince Damian Al Ghul, heir to the throne, long may he live. 

You busy yourself with memorizing your dress to avoid everyone’s gaze. It is a gorgeous shade of green and black, similar to the colors that were portrayed on Prince Damian’s portrait when you saw it months ago. Golden threads line the sleeves and the belt that hugs your waist is adorned with innumerable pearls. When your marriage was contracted, your mother hurriedly ordered a few dresses for you. 

“You are to be a princess, so you must dress like one. No longer are you simply the daughter of a baron,” she told you. Your heart breaks remembering how your father traded in his most prized horses, and your brothers exchanged numerous bushels of fruits to afford you a new wardrobe. 

A hand pinching your chin and lifting your head harshly dismisses you from your thoughts. Your eyes widen in remembrance of the woman standing before you.

Talia Al Ghul, your future mother-in-law, stands before you with a cold expression on her face. You saw very little of her when you visited the castle many moons ago. All you could distinctly remember of her was her aloof personality, and her constant complaining towards her household staff. 

The awkwardness between the two of you is evident. You curtsy gracelessly, partly due to your nerves and partly due to the grip Talia still has on your chin. Talia responds with a scowl. 

“I am honored to be in your presence once more, Princess Talia,” you squeak. 

She replies after a few moments. “Well, you certainly look like a baron’s daughter.” She finally releases your chin as a man approaches behind her with salt-and-pepper hair with an intricate crown on his head. 

He certainly did not need the crown to display the fact that he was the king, as his confidence and posture exuded royalty and demanded respect. R’as has his hands folded behind his back and his eyes bore into your own. He holds a stern gaze, but there is a sparkle in his eye. 

“Welcome to Gotham,” he booms, his voice traveling far. His hands extend outwards in greeting. 

Every single person in the immediate vicinity, including yourself, immediately curtsy deeply, a sign of respect for your ruler. 

He grabs your arms firmly and forces you up back into an upright position. You silently gasp at his forwardness, but alas, this is the king in front of you. He is one of the few in the realm that does not need to follow social decorum. He is above it all. 

He studies you, akin to how his daughter did. You take the time to do the same. This is your first meeting, as you did not catch even a glimpse of the king the previous time you visited the castle.

The king looks incredible for his advanced age. There are a few wrinkles that line his face, but it bewilders you at how youthful he appears. To be fair, you deduce that living a life of luxury, having the best access to healthcare, and having a plethora of food at his disposal greatly contributed to his appearance. 

He says nothing else to you and hums to himself when he finishes scrutinizing you. He finally turns to your father and greets him enthusiastically by name. 

This is not the way you thought your initial meeting with your in-laws would go. Surely, you did not think it would be perfect, but Talia is too aloof and R’as is too reserved. You can only hope that Damian will act differently.

As R’as moves on to welcome other members of your family and Talia sulks in the background, the subject of the portrait you gazed upon just a few months ago strides towards you. Your eyes widen at the accuracy of the portrait, but the painting did not reveal just how large he was. 

He is easily several heads taller than you, and strongly built. His muscles are evident underneath the several layers of cloth and armor. They strain against his clothing and you cannot help but wonder how they would feel in your hands. 

Prince Damian approaches you slowly with an unreadable expression. He certainly is a fine specimen of a man. His attractiveness makes you insecure of your own plain appearance. He could never be satisfied with you when he looks like that. 

His trademark greens take in your appearance, and it is in that moment that you want the ground to swallow you up. His intense gaze is intimidating and does not break until he holds out his hand towards you. While maintaining eye contact, his hand finds yours, and he bends down.

His lips touch your knuckles softly, and you cannot contain the gasp that escapes your mouth. You blush furiously at the daring demonstration of affection. In front of your family, no less. In front of his family! It is the first time you have been touched so affectionally by someone who was not a family member.

Well, the prince will become a part of your family soon enough, you surmise. 

Your name travels out of your mouth, and you almost faint from how lovely it sounded coming from him. His voice is deep, but flows out so smoothly. Just from the way he says it, you clench your thighs together. You have been attracted to many people before, but those were all childish crushes. This man is to be your husband! There is a difference sense of attraction towards him. The idea that he would be yours to love, to touch, and to care, has opened the floodgates for your excitatory thoughts. Is this man truly to your husband? Are you perhaps dreaming?

“I hope the journey to Gotham was pleasant.”

All you can do is nod in response. There is an uncomfortable beat of silence. The horde of people around you awkwardly stare, observing your interaction with Prince Damian. 

The only men you were ever allowed to speak with freely were your relatives and staff. You have never seriously held a conversation with an eligible bachelor, let alone someone who would become your husband in just a few days. You cringe internally as the silence lengthens longer than you hope for. Why can you not think of something to say? Anything? Could this be any more humiliating?

Talia exhales loudly to your side. 

“Does she not speak?” she spits. “Is that what has been brought to my son, the heir to the throne? The future Demon’s Head? A mere girl who cannot say more than a few words? With no substantial dowry either.”

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes. You have only been in the capital for less than five minutes, and already she despises you. Have you already ruined your chance for marriage? 

“She is simply tired from our arduous journey, your Majesty.” Your father attempts to defend your silence. “Speaking of the dowry, you are correct, in that we cannot offer your family what many others can, but we have brought several items that we hope you will enjoy.” He bows deeply to conclude his statement, groveling as much as possible to appease the princess.

“Of course,” Damian adds. “All of you must be tired from the road. Please, come inside.” He extends his arm towards the castle, “I am eager to become acquainted with my lovely bride.”

[cariantha]

Bad Dream

Book: Open Heart, Book 2 Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Sawyer Brooks) Rating: General Category: Fluff Word count: 1.2K Summary: Sawyer has a nightmare while Ethan is out of town and despite the distance he is able to bring her comfort in the sweetest way.

A/N: To the anon who sent this ask, I’m sorry for taking so long to follow up. I had promised “Coming Soon” content, but the original idea for this fic was not working. So, I scrapped it and ended up going another direction, inspired by the song Bracelet by Lauv. Hope you like it!

Almost three months had passed since the attempted attack on the senator and Sawyer was doing fairly well. Finally back to work full-time, going to counseling, and taking medication as needed. Despite the positive prognosis, Ethan knew there could still be setbacks. Nor was he over his own fear of losing her. So he continued to keep a watchful eye. And being this far away caused stress and constant worry. 

It was supposed to be a quick turnaround trip. The plan was to fly to Cleveland with Baz, consult on a case, and return home as quickly as possible. But nothing had gone according to plan. A diverted flight, lab work delays, and a challenging diagnosis kept him in Ohio three days longer than originally anticipated.

2:00 P.M.

8:30 P.M.

“You were right, Ethan,” Baz announced as he returned to the conference room with updated lab results. “It’s POEMS syndrome.”

A couple hours later, Ethan and Baz had drafted a detailed treatment plan to present to the patient's physician of record.  

“Baz, we’ve been in Ohio much longer than I anticipated. I need to get back to Boston. Do you think you can wrap up this consultation on your own? There’s a flight back to Boston leaving at 5 a.m. that I’d like to catch.”

“I got this, Boss.”

“Thank you.”

1:00 A.M.

After booking the flight and packing his things, Ethan laid on the hotel bed intending to catch a nap before his ride to the airport arrived. Eyes closed but far from sleep, his phone buzzed and vibrated on the nightstand, Sawyer’s name flashing on the screen.  

“Rookie?”

“E-Ethan.”

He sat up and turned on the lamp when he heard his whimpered name. “Hey,” he said delicately, “what’s wrong?” His heart started to beat faster and harder, mind suddenly racing with all of the possible reasons for the broken voice on the other end of the line.  

Trying to stop herself from crying, Sawyer snuffled, “I just needed to hear your voice. Will you talk with me for a little bit?”

“I’m here,” he assured her, “whatever you need.”

With that specific request he understood the cause of her distress. Though not as frequent several weeks later, Sawyer continued to have nightmares about the poison attack. This one likely the result of whatever triggered her anxiety earlier in the day. “Was it another nightmare?”

“Yeah, it was a bad one,” her voice was still shaking.  

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” 

“I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“No need to be sorry. I wasn’t asleep. I was actually lying awake thinking of you.”

“You were? What were you thinking about?”

One night after a particularly upsetting dream, Ethan brought comfort by revealing one of the moments when he started to realize he had feelings for her. Since then, whenever they were together and Sawyer woke up from a bad dream, he soothed her back to sleep with another endearing memory. 

“Do you remember the leather wrist band you bought for me at the farmer’s market last year?” he recalled.

“You mean the friendship bracelet I gave you? Because you were being stubborn and wouldn’t admit that we were friends?” she wise-offed.  

“Can you hear my eyes rolling?” he came back with, earning a light chuckle from the other end of the line. “Yes, that’s the one.” His voice now gentle, “I don’t remember if I ever told you, but I took it with me when I left for the Amazon. You know that I convinced myself that it would be best for us to try and move on… but that didn’t mean I was ready to let you go right away. With a foot already out the door, I realized that I needed to take a piece of you with me, so I went back for it. I figured I’d wear it until enough time passed that I didn’t need to anymore. I was so busy and distracted when I was working that I sometimes fooled myself into thinking I was finally getting over you... but at night when I was alone with my thoughts…” he exhaled softly, “well, they always drifted to you and I’d wake up missing you even more.” Sawyer sniffed back sentimental tears as he continued. “The day that I didn’t need it anymore never came. I wore that leather band every day until I came home.”  

“Thank you for telling me that,” she whispered.  “Want to know something?”

“What’s that?”

“When you first told me about the W.H.O. mission, I started following their Pictagram account. After you had been gone for a few weeks, they posted a picture of you and you were wearing the bracelet. And the night you came back, when we were talking in the beer garden, I saw it around your wrist. Just under the sleeve of your jacket,” she explained. “It’s the reason I kissed you that night. You’d never wear something like that unless it meant something important to you.”

“I see you’ve mastered the art of observation,” he joked before getting serious again. “And it did. It still does.” 

Sawyer’s phone vibrated in her hand as a notification alerted her to a new text message.

“Ethannnnn, you’re wearing it now?” touched by the gesture.

“This time it was the first thing I grabbed when packing for this trip. I wanted a piece of you with me while I was away.”

“I love…” she caught herself. It’s not that she didn’t want to say it, she just didn’t want to pressure Ethan to say it back if he wasn’t ready. “I love that. It’s so sweet.”

“And far less creepy than pocketing a pair of your panties,” trying and successfully making her laugh.

“Well, I should probably confess that I’ve raided your closet and will be spooning your pillow so I can feel close to you too.” 

He laughed heartily at the mental image. “Are you feeling better?”

“Much.”

“I’m glad. Go have a cup of tea and try to get back to sleep,” he encouraged.

“Any chance I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

“We’ll see, but I think the odds are looking good,” he replied knowing full well he’d be boarding a plane and on his way home to her in just a couple of hours.  

“Well, fingers crossed. And Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she said most sincerely.

“Only good dreams now, okay? Goodnight, Rookie.”

“Bye, babe.”

9:00 A.M.

Ethan entered the still apartment, leaving his coat and suitcase in the entryway. Seeing no sign of life yet, he quietly made his way to the master bedroom. Head just barely poking out from under the comforter, he found her just as she said, spooning his king size pillow.  

He carefully toed off his shoes and parted with his shirt and pants.  He removed his watch, placing it on the top of the dresser, but left his other accessory on.

Lifting the comforter, Ethan climbed into bed scooting up against her backside and wrapped his arm tightly around her. Though jarring her from sleep, the familiar touch and scent instantly quieted her alarm.  

“Surprise,” he breathed into her ear before kissing her cheek and trailing down her neck.

With a raspy morning voice she uttered “Hiiiii” while her hands hugged his arm, the feel of braided leather under one of her palms.  

“Did you have better dreams after we talked?” he mumbled against the skin of her exposed shoulder.

Rolling over, she nudged him flat onto his back and slowly straddled his hips. “Mhmmm, the best. And it looks like they’re about to become reality,” she smirked before leaning down and kissing him deeply.  

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