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ceoofglytchell · 2 months ago

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To be the Thorn to a Rose

Summary: Aegon knows only that he will marry a lady of great beauty, a flower of House Tyrell. He is certain that he will find nothing but misery in this union, until he finally meets his betrothed and everything changes.

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Tyrell!betrothed!Reader

Word count: 3144 words

Warnings: fluff, a bit of humor, Reader has Tyrell features, longing, aegon’s mommy issues, alicent being mean, brief talks of abuse (from otto and alicent), hurt/comfort, soft!Aegon, no mention of Y/N

Notes: This is based on this request. I changed a thing or two, but I hope you’ll like it! Likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛

Aegon always knew he would marry a lady his mother would choose for him, not because he fell in love.

Love was a rare concept among couples these days. Did his mother love his father? Probably. Yet they hadn’t loved each other when he had taken her as his wife twenty years ago.

He knew such marriage alliances were forged to merge great houses and their bloodlines and to show strength, but it still didn't seem fair to him.

Yes, he enjoyed having a lot of sex with all sorts of women, be they were ladies in waiting, maids or the whores out in Flea Bottom.

But the thought of a future bride he didn't know, with whom he would spend his entire life, who would give him heirs, and who would most likely hate him, was more than a little frightening to him.

"Who is she?" Aegon asked his mother, Queen Alicent Hightower, after she told him of the marriage plans one sunny afternoon.

"Lady Tyrell of Highgarden. She is said to be beautiful, kind, and loving. Also very popular with her people. They say she goes out every Sunday to deliver bread to the townspeople."

Gods, have mercy on him...

His promised wife was apparently everything he was not. He was neither kind nor loving, and he certainly wasn't popular with the people.

Aegon was a drunkard, quick to anger and rebellious.

He could still remember the day he cut off his then-long, wavy hair. After Driftmark, he had simply needed a change, and it came in the form of copious amounts of wine and many nights out in the taverns and brothels with his companions.

When he had returned to the Red Keep the first thing in the morning and greeted his family at breakfast, Alicent had slapped him in the face, and Otto had dragged him back to his chambers by the collar.

They had called him a rabid dog. Chaotic, restless, and out of control.

And now someone like him was supposed to marry such a beautiful flower as Lady Tyrell?

No. Out of the question.

He couldn’t and he wouldn’t.

That thought had firmly settled in Aegon's mind... until the day finally came when he was allowed to meet you. And from then on, everything changed.

Your father, Lord Lambert Tyrell, rode a white horse in front of the carriage containing you, your Lady Mother, and your two sisters. You had no brother. Or rather, not yet, because rumor had it that your mother was with child again, even if she was past her prime.

Prince Aegon stood with his family in the courtyard of the Red Keep. His mother and grandfather had forced him to dress up, which is why he now wore his finest green doublet, his boots were polished, and his silver hair was neatly combed.

Queen Alicent stood beside him with her head held high, and every now and then he could feel her scrutinizing gaze on him. A gaze that made him feel small. Her dress was as green as the leaves of the King's Wood, and her fox-red hair was tied back in an elaborate hairstyle. A necklace with the seven-pointed star of the Faith of the Seven also adorned her neck.

At her side stood his younger sister Helaena, who was examining a small blue butterfly that had just landed on her hand, and his younger brother Aemond, who was staring fixedly at the ground and looked as if he wanted to murder someone.

His father, King Viserys, was, of course, absent in his condition. His old man often stayed in bed these days, where the maesters cared for him.

Oh, he loved this family.

The carriage doors opened, and suddenly it felt like the sun was shining brighter.

You were breathtaking.

In a pink gown with floral embroidery and long, wavy hair, you stood between your sisters and your mother. Like a brilliant red rose amidst pesky weeds.

He swallowed.

Aegon had considered so many possibilities beforehand. If you had been ugly, he would have simply told you, and you would have hated him, and everything would have been fine. But you are not ugly.

Apparently the gods were punishing him, for you were by far the most beautiful lady he had ever seen.

He hated it.

"The Lady Tyrell!" announced one of the bannermen of your house.

You stepped forward, and with every step you took toward him, the prince could feel his throat tighten. He couldn't breathe. He hadn't expected you to have such an effect on him.

If you had been any of the ladies he had a glimpse of in the castle, he wouldn't have hesitated to try to woo you and lure you into his bed, just so he could find someone else the next day.

But you weren't just any lady.

You were his future wife, the future mother of his children.

He couldn’t use you like that.

When you finally came to a stop in front of him, you bowed deeply and smiled at him with a warm, inviting look in your eyes. His heart leaped, and he didn't know how to react. He could feel his mother's gaze on him, and he knew she already believed he would ruin this marriage.

"My lady," he finally greeted you, giving you a small bow of his own.

There was no kiss on the hand, as expected. He had forgotten.

"My prince," you replied in a sweet voice, and in that moment he realized that you were indeed not untrue.

You were not like the others with their feigned smiles, their bold touches, or their provocatively low necklines. You were genuine.

But above all, you were kind, and that wasn't something you often found within the walls of the Red Keep.

"I hope your journey was pleasant?" he asked you, trying to sound polite. The perfect son and husband, just like his mother had always wanted.

Your smile widened, and there was a sparkle in your eyes that he had never seen before in any woman he spoke to. Joy.

"Yes, very much. But I must say, I already miss the gardens of my home. The scent, the colors... Nevertheless, I believe I can find my place at your court," you answered him gently.

Immediately, an idea planted itself in his mind. You missed the flowers? He would give you some.

He needed to prove to you that he wasn't just a drunkard and a disappointment. Perhaps then, once you were husband and wife, you wouldn't hate him completely.

"We have gardens as well. Sure, they will never get close to the beauty of the gardens in Highgarden, but I would still offer to show them to you?" he suggested with a shrug, as if it were no big deal and just something mentioned in passing.

"You would show me the gardens?" you asked him, blinking as if you couldn't believe it.

You had been told so many bad things about the prince beforehand. You were told that he was constantly drunk, that he always carried a glass of wine in his hand, that his hair was never combed, his clothes were never clean, and that he was always chasing the nearest skirt.

But the image you just got of him was a contrast to that.

You didn't see the prodigal son or the drunken prince, just a man like any other. A man you would like to get to know better.

"Perhaps you could let the lady inspect her new chambers first?" Queen Alicent suddenly interjected. "I am sure her journey has tired her out, and some rest would do her good."

Aegon and you were both about to object, but your father suddenly chimed in: "An excellent idea, Your Grace. We will rest first, and then we can break bread together."

You nodded obediently and curtsied again, this time to the queen, before disappearing into the castle with your mother, father and sisters.

Aegon sighed and was about to go back inside, when a hand suddenly turned around his arm.

"You are too hasty, Aegon," his mother reprimanded him.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What had he done wrong now?

"I just wanted to show her the gardens?" he replied questioningly.

"Which is something you can do after breakfast, too. She will be resting today, and in the evening we will have dinner together. Until then, behave yourself, do you hear me?"

He stared down at the ground beneath his feet. The biting edge of his mother's voice cut him as deeply as the sharpest dagger.

"Yes, Mother," he finally replied.

The Green Queen turned and disappeared into the castle corridors, whereupon Aemond followed her, and finally Helaena turned away as well. But not before muttering one last sentence:

"Flowers take time to bloom."

At dinner, he was drunk. How could he be otherwise? His mother's words had cut him deeply, and he couldn't help but devour one cup of Arbor Red after another.

You were sitting right next to him, and he just knew you were disappointed in him, too. You had to be. What lady so beautiful, pure, and kind would ever want a man like him? A drunkard and one that was useless.

You deserved better than this. Better than him.

Your sisters often whispered in your ear, and he knew it was about him. His terrible manners, his behavior, everything. You whispered back, and he knew you hated him. What else could it be?

What Aegon didn't know, however, was that you constantly contradicted your annoying sisters.

"He is drinking again," Flora whispered to you, rolling her eyes. She clearly didn't like your betrothed.

"With this family, I probably would too," you defended him, looking at her with eyes as piercing as if they were daggers.

Flora pursed her lips and shook her head. "I cannot understand why you like him."

For a moment, you looked at your future prince-husband. The expression on his handsome face was blank, and his gaze was distant, even as he stared into the dark red liquid in his bronze cup. The circles under his eyes were deep and dark, and his shoulder-length silver hair seemed uncombed, with a few strands falling wildly across his forehead.

He seemed sad. Lost.

You wanted to see him when he was happy.

You would tend him like one of your beloved roses in the garden your father had planted especially for you at home, and which your sisters would hopefully take care of in the future. And maybe, just maybe, he too would finally bloom under your care.

After dinner, the prince stumbled down the corridors toward his chambers. His vision was blurry, the world was spinning, and he felt so sick he was afraid he might empty the contents of his stomach into the nearest flower vase.

His hand stroked the cold, stone wall of the castle, which now felt more like a cage to him than anything else. He needed some form of support, because without it, he would probably fall to the floor without being able to stand up on his own.

It wasn't the first time this had happened, and it wouldn't be the last.

Suddenly, the wall he was holding on to ended next to him, and he could make out the outline of stairs on the floor in front of him. He took a step forward, but before he could stumble and fall down the grand staircase, a gentle hand wrapped around his arm, and he felt someone gently pull him back.

"You must be careful, my prince," you said gently, and he could feel a shiver run down his spine.

You were being gentle with him. So loving. Almost... motherly.

"I need to—my chambers," he stammered drunkenly, about to move on, but you gently pulled him back. You certainly didn't want your betrothed to fall down the stairs and die.

"I will accompany you, my prince. Let me help you."

Before he could even say a word for or against—although he would never have objected—you took him by the hand and led him down each step one by one. You kept telling him he was doing well and not to rush, as you would still need him. It made his heart race.

No one had ever cared for him like this.

At some point, you reached his chambers and you slowly led him inside. His rooms were messy and unclean, but that didn't bother you at the time. You could guess why he was doing this.

His family had placed a chain around him from which he couldn't escape.

The alcohol didn't help, but it seemed as if he still needed it to numb his senses. You hoped that one day he wouldn't need the bottle to escape his duties.

You hoped that one day you could take on that role.

You gently led him to his bed and chuckled as he flopped onto the mattress like a sack being tossed onto the pantry floor. He mumbled something, and you understood.

First, you slowly removed his boots and placed them beside his bed. Then you helped him slip out of his doublet, which you folded and laid on a chair. You placed his tunic right next to them, as well as his belt. You left his trousers on, not knowing how he would react, if you would touch him this way.

"Do you need anything else, my prince?" you asked him solicitously, but you received no answer. Not even a murmur.

Instead, you heard a soft snore, and you sighed.

With quiet steps, you approached the bed and looked down at the sleeping Targaryen. His features were relaxed, and he seemed to be sleeping calmly and peacefully. It suited him well.

You would love to see him so relaxed during the day.

You leaned forward carefully and stroked a silver strand of hair from his forehead ever so gently. He had his demons, but he was admittedly so very beautiful.

An angel in the sheets.

With a sigh, you finally got up and left his chambers so you could go to bed yourself. The day had been long, and you, too, were exhausted.

Aegon awoke the next morning with a throbbing behind his forehead and a great deal of confusion spreading within him.

He didn't know how he got to his chambers, nor who had undressed him. For a moment, he thought he had shared a bed with someone, but no woman lay beside him, and the sheets weren't dirty either. So he hadn't had a rendezvous.

Sitting up, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and let out a long, hearty yawn. But then his gaze fell on the small table that stood beside his bed. Instead of a bucket of wine, which should have been prepared, there was a cup of water and a small pink flower lay beside it.

It was you. You, his future wife. You, the woman he had thought would hate him.

You had cared for him in a way his mother never had. Your sweet, gentle nature was something he had never encountered before, but he wanted to experience it anew every day.

He barely knew you, and yet he was now certain that he loved you. He couldn't help it. Who could not love such a wonderful being as you?

And so he set out to find you.

He found you in the gardens of the Red Keep. The sky was clear, and the sun fell in soft rays onto your face, giving you an ethereal glow. Your hands stroked some of the rose petals, and you leaned closer to the bush to smell them. The smile that then formed on your face made his knees go weak.

What had he done to deserve a woman like you?

He approached you with slow steps, holding the flower you had left on his nightstand. The crack of a branch under his boot finally betrayed him.

"My prince," you said happily, beaming at him.

"My betrothed," he replied, giving you a small, uncharacteristic bow. He held out the flower for you to take.

A blush bloomed on your soft cheeks as you took the flower from him and tucked it behind your ear. The petals were the same color as your dress, which framed your body in such a way that he wished to worship you like a goddess.

"I wanted to apologize to you for last night," he began slowly, careful with each word. "I acted like a fool."

"Yes, you did," you replied in your soft, almost melodic voice. You expected something more.

"I have embarrassed and disgraced myself. I beg your pardon, my lady. Sincerely. From the bottom of my heart," he tried, holding his breath.

It was only a few seconds of silence, but to him it felt like an eternity.

But then you took a step toward him. And then another, and then another, until you had to tilt your head back slightly so you could still look into his eyes. Although not much, you were still a little shorter than him.

"I wish to be a good wife to you, Aegon," you began. "But in return, I would like to call you a husband I love and enjoy being around."

For a moment, Aegon didn’t know how to react. He wanted to jump in pure joy, take you in his arms, kiss you, push you against the nearest wall to show you how much you already meant to him, but instead he just stared at you.

"Aegon?" you asked carefully, placing one of your delicate hands on his arm. The gesture sent a spark through his entire body, a flame that would never go out.

"What do I have to do?" he asked instead. "Please, I want to be good. I want your love, your trust. I want you."

Your hand slid gently down his arm, and Aegon felt as if he had reached the arms of heaven. Finally, you intertwined your fingers with his and squeezed lovingly.

"If you declare me worthy of your love and affection, then I would gladly have it," you answered with a smile that melted his heart.

He nodded immediately and brought your clasped hands to his face, where he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your hand. After all, he had missed it during your first meeting.

You, too, leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to the back of his hand.

He smiled at you, and you smiled back.

And when he leaned in and his lips brushed against yours in a feather light kiss, you and he both knew that your marriage would not be a disappointment.

He would prove it to his mother. He would prove it to you.

And he would be the best husband you could possibly have.

For you.

His love, his beautiful rose.

The Divider is from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !

Taglist: @bey0nd-1he-stars @sassypain @hisfavegirl @dahaenatargaryen

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x female reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #tom glynn carney

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 2 months ago

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John Travolta - Greased Lightnin' 1978

Grease: The Original Soundtrack from the Motion Picture is the original motion picture soundtrack for the 1978 film Grease, starring John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John. It has sold over 30 million copies worldwide, making it one of the best-selling albums of all time, also ranking amongst the biggest selling soundtrack albums of all time. "Greased Lightnin'", with John Travolta on lead vocals, reached the top 20 in the UK and peaked at number 47 on the US Billboard Hot 100 in 1978.

In the film version, the character Danny has purchased a used car with the savings from his summer job, giving it the nickname "Greased Lightnin'". While the other greasers are skeptical of the car because it is in such poor shape, he is able to win them over with a rousing rock and roll number describing the modifications needed to transform it into a hot rod capable of arousing the ladies. In the original recording, as was in the case with the stage musical on which it was based, several unairable profanities of a sexual nature are peppered throughout the lyrics, which deterred a number of stations from playing the song and possibly prevented it from reaching the top 40 in the US. It was one of the few songs from the original Chicago-centric version of Grease to transition, uncut, from Chicago to Broadway and to film. Jim Jacobs later released a revised set of lyrics suitable for school performances that remove the sexual references (this "clean" version was also used in Fox's live television production of Grease), and most televised edits of the film cut the offending lyrics.

In the original musical, the song is Kenickie's featured number, with the other greasers serving as his backup singers. The film expands upon the car's purpose. Whereas the stage musical gives no particular reason for Kenickie's desire to build the car (which does not play a major factor in the play beyond that point), the film explains that the greasers' rivals, named the Scorpions in the film, had challenged them to a quarter-mile drag race, requiring them to have a competitive car for the duel. With Danny at the helm, Greased Lightnin' wins the race. The film is also notable for having Danny (played by John Travolta, who had already had top-40 hits before Grease) sing lead on the song, while Kenickie (Jeff Conaway) contributed with a few call-and-response lines. In keeping with the musical's tendency to use styles of music popular in the late 1950s, the song "Greased Lightnin'" is in a slightly modified twelve-bar blues form, and is inspired by the 1959 single "White Lightning" by The Big Bopper.

"Greased Lightnin'" received a total of 74,6% yes votes!

youtube

#finished #high yes #70s #o1 #o1 sweep #o1 ultrasweep #o234 #lo23 #lo24 #lo24 tie #lo34 #john travolta #english #soundtracks #film score

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secretly-a-catamount · 1 year ago

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Once again thinking about the Serafina Series and The Crane Wives.

The Crooked, the Cradle is book three from Serafina’s perspective. The quiets were restless and the silents were still, as Rowena, her enemy, stood over Serafina’s grave, alone with her kill, and raised her from the dead. Later, after running from Uriah, leaving blood in the water after she transformed out of the stream, Serafina stumbled into Biltmore, the Vanderbilts, the nobles of the house, weary and broken, and cried out, wondering if anyone could hear her, wondering if she truly was nobody’s daughter if her mother had run for the hills and her father couldn’t see her. She ran back to the woods, back to Rowena, who wore her hair down and a crooked smile, the only one who understood her now, and begged. Serafina who worked with her worst enemy to save the citizens of Biltmore, because even if her season was ending, their’s didn’t have to. Serafina, who prayed to the God she didn’t really believe in to survive the unsurvivable so she could live, so she could be happy, so she could have the love she would never want the devil to know about, because she just couldn’t let it go.

Canary in a Coal Mine is Waysa’s secret doubts about his and Rowena‘s relationship. He hopes that maybe he’ll be worth more someday than the man who pulls her out of her nightmares, the only thing that keeps her safe when the light goes out. That he’ll be worth more than the first man who showed her basic kindness and empathy. That he’ll be worth something to her, because he fears that he isn’t, even if that isn’t true, because he fears that if he loses his voice, if the darkness stops receding, that she will break the surface, return him to the darkness of empty graves and black air. He fears that if he stops being useful to her, she will leave, and he will continue to sing for her until his well-kept heart that was fed on promises stoped beating and his black lungs failed, expelling his final breaths, breaths that were made of coal dust and his own crushed bones and her love. Waysa will sing for her, because he loves her, even if she finally wised up to his flaws, even if she rightfully doesn’t love him back. Waysa will sing like a bird, like a canary in a coal mine who loves the miner who never even thinks to turn around as he falls from his perch, dead. Waysa will sing.

Thinking again about how The Crane Wives and Robert Beatty must share a brain, because of how well so much of their music matches with the Serafina Series.

Curses is Serafina talking to Braeden, a girl who is so tired of everything, a girl who, in her own eyes, will never be good enough, who thinks she’s cursed, a girl who feels so guilty about dragging her lover from his world into hers, a girl who creeps down the empty corridors of a house — her lover’s last named engraved on it like an elegy — with cobwebs in the corner, the backyard full of bones, knowing full well that war is always about to knock on their door, and burn them, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, because her enemies are after them both.

Tongues and Teeth and Never Love an Anchor is Rowena’s justification for leaving Waysa after he helped her heal from her wounds before the events of Splintered Heart, how she believed that every kiss would just leave Waysa bleeding, how, due to her father’s abuse and her own past actions, she thought that she could only ever hurt him, because she thought it was simply her nature to hurt and ruin and destroy.

Allies or Enemies is Rowena and Waysa’s relationship during Splintered Heart, once enemies who were then allies, Waysa having nursed her back to health in what Rowena considered a “moment of weakness”. Rowena, who felt guilty about how she treated him and the people he loved, Waysa, who forgave her for what she’d done, for disappearing. Waysa, who never doubted that she could change, even when she denied her feelings, even when she spoke words made of thorns and plagues and the cloying smoke of a wildfire.

The Garden is how consumed by grief and borderline suicidal Braeden was after he buried Serafina. Braeden, whose world was torn down by Serafina’s dying breaths. Braeden, who buried his best friend and lover — who was both his shield and his stone — with a spade and dug her up after she returned to life with shaking fingers. Braeden, who lied to his aunt and his uncle and the Estate as a whole. Braeden, who longed to make her grave their bed on his darkest days, who longed to give the crows who laughed at him their pound of flesh. Braeden, whom her ghost whispered to, when it returned in her blood-stained clothes, drifting into the manor from the window, pressing her lips to his neck, her teeth to his throat. Braeden, who considered a deal with the devil, the Black Cloak, if it meant saving her. Braeden, who fell to his knees and ripped up the ground with his bare hands until they bled.

Thinking about love and tragedy and broken children.

Thinking about the Serafina Series and The Crane Wives.

#y’all will not believe me when I say I originally wrote the first part of this post in a bowling alley/arcade #but I did #serafina and the black cloak #serafina and the splintered heart #serafina and the twisted staff #serafina and the seven stars #braeden vanderbilt #serafina #waysa #rowena fox-pemberton #lady rowena fox-pemberton #braedafina #serafaeden #rowaysa #the crane wives #the serafina series #serafina series

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abluebirdsseaview · 6 months ago

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All New Part 5

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Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

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Peoplemagazine

Liked by 255,387 users

Peoplemagazine according to sources close to Drew Starkey and Y/n Y/l/n they have been dating for the past two months. Many fans have also been speculating this relationship due to recent exchanges in each other's comment sections and their appearance in Sabrina Carpenter's Bed Chem music video.

2k comments

User1 I KNEW ITTTTT

User2 she's collecting white boys of the month like infinity stone

User3 obsessed with this pairing

Madelinecline 🤭

> user4 she been knew

Drewstarkey

Liked 7,273,185 users

Drewstarkey officially the coolest

20k comments

User1 oh my they are perfect

Sabrinacarpenter my babies 🥹

User2 y/n is living my dream

User3 may this type of love find me 🙏🙌

Madelinecline my favorite couple

Yourinstagram my coolness rubbed off on you

> drewstarkey definitely did

Text messages

Drew ❤️‍🩹

How are you feeling with the announcements.

You

I'm actually feeling pretty good

Thought everyone was going to jump my neck but it's actually been very calm

I'm so happy

Drew ❤️‍🩹

Me too

Can't wait to see you again

How are the auditions going?

You

I think they are going well

Trying to not get too excited

But I have never wanted a role more than this

I'm getting called again

Call later?

Drew ❤️‍🩹

Yes missed your voice

Break a leg

Yourinstagram

Liked by 4,382,197 users

Yourinstagram scary to think I'm half way to 50

19k comments

Madelinecline those cucumber drinks were dangerous

> yourinstagram SO TRUE

User1 SHES 25?

Hole4drewstarkey my idol

Gracieabrams this was the best debrief birthday dinner

> yourinstagram we NEED to hang out more

Drewstarkey I would still date you if you had gray hair

> yourinstagram you would make a great silver fox

> user3 omg I'm dying

Madelinecline

Liked by 2,738,028 users

Madelinecline The gang is back together

12k comments

Yourinstagram nothing like new york with my girls to destres

> Madelinecline this was necessary

User1 need a friend group like this

Drewstarkey give her back to me

> Madelinecline I got her first

> yourinstagram ladies ladies... there is more than enough of me to go around 🙂‍↕️

Paulmescalupdates

Liked by 3,827 users

Paulmescalupdates Paul Mescal and Y/n Y/l/n are set to star in the movie adaptation of beach read by Emily Henry. Filming will start summer of 2025.

148 comments

User1 the crossover we did not know we needed

User2 AHHH IM SO EXCITED

User3 this is amazing

User4 just wait in a few months y/n will be dating him 🙄

Yourinstagram Did you HAVE to use a Pic of me blonde 😮‍💨

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Taglist: @mads-writes-vibes @xcinnamonmalfoyx @frankoceanluvr11 @willowpains @rafecameronsfan @mytimeiswaiting @aariahnaa @girl-detective16 @mrsjamespotterr @thepopcultureaddict @purplerose291 @surazim @chimmysoftpaws @blog-luvdance @artistadistrada2002 @me-ig1 @ayy1234567 @raeven-marie43 @kaiparkerwifes @norasnodgrass @percysley @inthelibrarybtw @wh0re4drewstarkey @pookie1dookie2wookie3

#drew starkey #drew starkey angst #drew starkey fanfiction #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey smut #drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x you #drew starky x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe x reader

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almostempty · 9 months ago

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Look at this photograph

(joel miller x f!reader)

The second installment of Never made it as a wise man

WC: 3.5k | Part 1 | Part 3| Other fics | Rating: 18+

Summary: you open Joel’s dick pic and (after examination) decide to give him a call

Note: it’s me ya boi (gn), back with more divorceddadrockdilf!joel bc you guys get me. i know y’all want them to fuck, and I want them to fuck too. unfortunately, this flowed through me first, and I am merely a vessel for the spirit of buttrock joel.

so, until they get their freak nasty on, please enjoy this as a chapter 1.5, with gratuitous dick pic art critique and crankin’ it over the phone <3 don’t worry, he’s still a lil pathetic. mistakes and bad jokes are all on me.

Tags: au no outbreak modern joel, divorced dad rock dilf joel x f!reader, picks up right where ch.1 ended, dick pic descriptions, alternating pov, dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation, it’s all just phone sex, but edge yourself through it with fond memories of ch. 1, still crackish, but i am still dead serious about it being hot so idc

inspo playlist i found on spotify: Divorced Dad Rock: BANGERZ

thanks: to @hellishjoel for hosting the #hotdilfsummerchallenge and to everyone who enjoyed part 1

@gothcsz i promise fuckboy!joel is cookin, he’s just in the crockpot rn. he’s gotta tenderize like a white lady’s pinterest recipe for pulled pork.

* i tried to tag everyone who wanted more, but if you don’t wanna be here i’ll remove it <3 or if i missed you and you want to be tagged next time pls let me know

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you blurt out after opening the message from Joel. The vulgar dick pic sends a prickly worm of arousal slithering down your spine.

Without thinking, you tilt the phone down toward your chest, and your eyes shoot up like you’ve got to make sure nobody saw your naughty message. Warmth blooms on your cheeks as the flash of embarrassment starts to dissolve. You don’t need to hide.

You’re in your bed, in your apartment, wearing Joel’s grubby Creed t-shirt. The one that smells like Degree Sport and a Jiffy Lube break room. You're free to look at all the dick pics your heart desires. And that’s what you’re going to do.

The wiggle of bashful energy turns into a squirm as you shift your hips, seeking a comfy position in bed. The t-shirt bunches up under your back and you wonder if the unique Joel scent of it will linger on your pillow beneath your shoulders. You knew pilfering the shirt on the way out the door was a good move, and now you get to enjoy your trophy. It makes it feel like the broad-as-a-barn-door DILF himself was still close enough to touch you.

It gives you another bright shudder when you think about the noises he made when he came in your hand earlier. The disappointed grunts of “fuck, wait” and how he tried to choke down the throaty groan that came from deep in his chest. Fuck. The perverted gremlins that have a permanent residence in your mind have been roused by the digital dick, and now they chitter and squawk at you. More! More! More!

You reopen the message, and seeing it gives you another rush. You save the picture to your phone storage. For your personal collection. Mine now, big boy. Your chin starts to dip towards your chest. It’s like you’re giving your phone the Kubrick stare with the ghost of a smirk. You’re free to take your time with this one. And you can be as much of a creep as you want. That makes you sigh softly and sink deeper against your pillows.

Before this afternoon, it was titillating when Joel would pop up in your mind's eye with his slutty slo-mo scenes. The one where he was bent over your car's engine like Megan Fox in that Transformers movie. Or, that damn happy trail tease with the t-shirt-sweat-rag move. You had just enough imagery to let your dirty thoughts take the wheel.

And, god, you had a good production team in your mind for projects starring Joel. Adding this will give the team a whole lot more to work with. You can hear them crashing around your conscious like the Animaniacs on the Warner Brothers lot. Horny chaos goblin mode activated.

Now that you have time to study the image, from the luxury of your microfiber sheets and lamplit bedroom, you let it get pervy. It’s your first real, lingering look–earlier today, you were so busy trying to rile him up in his jeans that you didn’t even pull it out.

It had somehow been even more delicious that way. Having him all needy and unable to stop himself from making a mess in your hand. And not just the noises, but the erratic thrusts into your tight fist? The heat of his pulsing length as he forgot himself? Yeah, you’re gonna remember that one.

But now? Now you need the visual. If the devil is in the details, you have a new neighbor with horns and a tail.

You zoom in on everything. Holding your phone closer to your face than necessary, like how do we enhance this bitch?

And holy shit.

Drool pools in your mouth and between your legs. You have the knee-jerk reaction to lick your phone.

You can hear Joel’s voice from earlier today. All husky and grumbly, arguing that you really were a slut for him, like, “You are, aren’t you, though? You came all this way in this excuse for a shirt just to see me?” He might be touch-starved enough to cream his jeans, but you just know he’s got a nasty mouth in bed, and you’ve got to find out firsthand. Soon. There’s no reason not to, right?

You pause when a flicker of reasoning tickles the back of your neck.

You’re back to looking in your review mirror in Joel’s driveway. The last-ditch attempt at checking your ego before you marched to his front door like a Halloween hoe bag version of Betty Crocker.

You had told yourself you weren’t trying to fuck your (almost) friend’s (sort of) dad. Told yourself there was nothing to pursue, and even if there was, you wouldn’t bite.

You like Ellie. She’s been (mostly) welcoming to you. You told yourself not to fuck anything up with the only person that’s got a single one of your jokes at your new job.

You were just bringing some food as a friendly gesture. The fresh visuals to add to your spank bank reel were supposed to be a harmless bonus. Okay, maybe it was a stretch to say you had rolled up to Joel’s driveway with pure intentions.

And it was an even bigger stretch–when he added that third finger while he finger fucked you on the kitchen counter—wait, no. It was an even bigger stretch when you had told yourself you probably weren’t his type anyway.

Like, that guy? With the fridge full of Coors Banquet? With those ugly Oakley sunglasses that you know are featured in his only picture on social media that isn’t a car or truck? The guy with all the words to Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” and Puddle of Mudd’s “She Hates Me” memorized?

Nah, deep down, you knew. You knew there was no way that middle-aged bachelor would turn down any action. But you hadn’t planned on actually making a move, especially not a handjob in the middle of the kitchen.

That’s on Joel for leaving the door open while trying to rub one out to some bimbo on Brazzers. And for barking at you in that sexy, angry voice. And for teasing you with the bulge in his oil-stained jeans. What were you supposed to do?

Something must be really rotting in the logic department of your brain.

Hey! The gremlin voice in your head is still shouting at you. Hey!! Why are we not tasting that dick yet?!! You’re back from your daydream and the excuses you crafted for your behavior, back to laying in your bed with Joel’s dick pic emitting a bright glow in your hand.

You still do want to lick the screen.

Fortunately for your immune system, you control your tongue. The critical part of you expels a sigh when you zoom out and take in the picture.

It’s undoubtedly a nice cock, but the image as a whole? Yikes.

Why do men have to be so fucking thick? And blunt? Wait, now you’re just describing the slightly blurry boner lighting up your face. Thick as in dense. How can men be so dense?

No imagination or creativity. No patience.

You shake your head slightly, scoffing. No wonder you caught him hunched over his cracked phone screen. It was probably the first video loaded on the only site he had saved.

No sweet, sweet, buildup, setting the mood, or getting cozy. Just whippin’ it out midday or snapping a photo in some ratty sweats.

Like you’ve never been that touch-starved or down bad?

You ignore that voice to continue your art critique.

The photo you sent is… sexy.

Sultry. A flirty tease. It says, “Look who has your shirt? Am I wearing it in bed? Do you think I'm wearing anything else?”

It’s all implied in the look in your eye and the picture's composition. The tease of the soft curves on the underside of your breasts, asking if he remembers what they felt like. Your hand bunching up the shirt, asking if he remembers the slide of that fist around his cock. If he remembers those fingers, the ones you sucked his sticky spend off of.

Such delicately crafted imagery. Personalized erotic fine art.

But men are so crude about it. He sees your tasteful, sexy pic, and immediately, the best his caveman brain can come up with is: send her ur dick! STAT!! Hard cock! Now!!

And, of course, he did. Taken in the dark with the flash on, making ominous shadows in the background. His old charcoal gray sweats are pulled down just enough to expose everything he’s offering.

The color is slightly blown out from the flash, and it’s a touch blurry where his phone didn’t autofocus quickly enough. His hand looks like it’s straight up, just choking the base of his cock. It’s jarring.

But that’s really the “man” of it all, right? Nothing subtle or demure about a rock-hard erection jutting towards you, reaching like it could get to you on its own if it just could get a little bit harder. No, there’s nothing coy about the raw thoughts of a man with no blood left in his brain who’s just aching to get inside you, either.

And fuck if that doesn’t start to override your critical analysis.

The glare from the flash reflects in the beads of precome rolling down his rosy tip. Mouth wateringly delicious. Your blood rushes to your pussy, filling your tender sex with heat and a deep, needy itch. It makes you dopey and silly. Not cock drunk, but like, dick pic buzzed.

You know it felt sizeable in your hand earlier, but you aren’t an expert at estimating size from a through-the-pants handjob. You try to recreate your own grip around nothing to estimate the size.

You giggle to yourself when you realize you're just a woman in her bed staring at her hand, jerking an invisible cock. The horny goblins aren’t amused, though. They’re sick of the daydreaming and distractions. They’re picking fights with the rest of your mind. Throwing rocks and sticks, shrieking and hissing.

The part of your brain that was griping about how men used to write love letters and respect the art of romance is getting quieter and further from your faculty for caring. You can hear its muffled shouts, and you assure that voice that you won’t give it all up this easily. Then, you completely tune it out.

The last brain cell with a complaint has you rolling your eyes. You have to be ovulating or something because it’s wholly debased the way this guy is doing it for you.

He’s just shameless with it.

You sent him tasteful underboob, and he gives you jumpscare dick-in-the-dark! How is this supposed to escalate? He gave it all up immediately! You send another picture, and he sends you his money shot? What’s he gonna do to give you more? Send you an asshole shot? That one makes you snort. You bet he would do it, too, if you asked.

Oh, that gives you a better idea. He’s not getting another picture from you at all. You tap on his name and tap the call icon. Of course, this horny motherfucker answers immediately. You aren’t sure it even rang before you’re connected to his porny bedroom voice.

“What are you wearing, dollface?”

“I already showed you. Call me dollface again, and I’m hanging up.”

You can hear his breathing like he’s got the mic on his phone in his mouth. That would typically drive you fucking nuts, but right now, you wanna hear his heavy breath against your ear and feel it hot against your skin.

“All right,” he speaks slowly, distracted. You know why. “You wanna be my slut, instead?”

Fuck. That has you throbbing between your legs, but he doesn’t get to know that yet.

“I already told you,” you keep your voice low and soft, “you don’t get to call me a slut for you, not with your behavior.” You strain, trying to hear any other noises, but his mic is probably clogged with dust from his shop or lint from the pocket of his sweats. You can just hear his fucking breathing.

“What behavior, baby?” he rasps.

“You always jump straight to sending a picture of your cock?”

You hear the soft snort through the phone. Followed by a deeper, throatier noise. A noise that makes you go cross-eyed and has you running a hand down to your naked lower half to tease yourself.

“You always steal a man’s clothes after you come on his fingers?”

You don’t really care what he asked. His voice makes your tongue go numb. Your mind goes blank. You start slowly, coating your own fingers in your slick arousal and drawing circles with a light touch.

You hum a noncommittal response into the phone.

“You look good in my shirt, baby, fuck,” he trails off breathlessly. The idea of you in his clothes gets him too close.

You don’t answer, and he’s too far gone to wait and tease.

He’s been wound up since you took off this afternoon, and it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that you sent him that pic when he had just gotten into bed.

It had taken ages to get his brother out of the shop this afternoon, and then Joel completely fucked up when he mentioned you and the lasagna. He had to begrudgingly host Tommy for dinner when he couldn’t come up with a better excuse than saying, “I’m gonna need you to fuck off so I can deal with the aching balls I’ve got from your surprise visit scaring away the woman I had my fingers knuckle deep inside.”

But when he was finally alone, it was like fate; your text came through right after he flopped onto his bed. His semi-stiff cock had sprung to full mast at the sight of you. The shirt he knew he didn’t fuckin’ lose, your soft curves, and the expression on your face. Like a vixen. Your PG-13 tease would do more for him than any X-rated video.

Knowing you were thinking about him and that you wanted him to know? That had him throbbing. He already knew from the desire in your eyes earlier today that you wanted more.

He could swear his fingers still hold the lingering flavor of your wet cunt. The visceral memory of you has him on edge. When he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, he has to pause, holding firmly in place. His body screams and aches for release, but he’s determined to keep it in check. He doesn’t want to blow his load until he gets a response from you.

He fights his urges, trying not to fuck his own fist in a frantic race to come.

But, fuck, it’s difficult when he can imagine the sounds you’d make as you sank onto his cock for the first time. The face you’d make. Your tight, wet walls hugging him just right. Like, he’s where he’s meant to be.

And the way you would look, bouncing on top of him. Your tits, your blissed-out face, the way your soft lips would part when you called out his name and cried for more.

Those lips.

The way he’d love to see them swollen and slobbering around the base of his cock. Fuck. His hips buck reflexively, and he hisses out a breath through his clenched teeth. When his phone lights up with your name, he answers before it can make a sound. You’re so bold. He likes that. It plasters a saucy grin on his face.

And now, with your breathy voice crackling through his janky phone speaker, he’s not gonna last long. You've got him losing his composure for the second time in one day. His whole body is rigid. His toes flex and snap unconsciously, and his jaw tenses. He hears your soft moan, and his thoughts are overflowing. He has no filter left.

“Yeah, baby? You moaning for me?” His hips punch up into his fist, and he gives in, allowing himself firm, severe strokes. “You’ve got me so hard. You moaning for my cock?”

You are so not gonna answer that one. If the next words out his mouth are, “Yeah, you like that?” you’re gonna block him for that. But it is undeniably hot to hear him already so worked up. You just know he’s gonna be coming all over himself again for you, and that really does make you moan just for him.

Your noises earn you another growly groan from Joel that you’d kill to hear again. The more uninhibited his noises are, the louder you get in response.

“You using your fingers, or you have a toy?” his question is punctuated with a grunt.

“Mm, just fingers,” you purr, finally granting him an actual response as you roll your hips. Having Joel on the line gives you a heady sense of satisfaction. Wondering what’s going to come out of his filthy mouth next gives you a shiver of anticipation.

“I know that sweet pussy is just achin’ to be filled again.” Correct.

“Yes.”

“S’right, baby, I know.”

Joel whimpering on the phone for you is absolutely going to get you off. Your hips chase your own fingers. You switch your phone audio to speakerphone and drop it on your pillow so you can use both hands. Pinching at your own nipples as if it were Joel’s big hand under your smuggled shirt.

“Tell me,” he pants, “who do you need to fill it for you?”

“You, Joel.”

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “you wanna ride this cock, huh baby?”

“Mhmm.” Bingo. Right again. You wish you could feel the pressure of him inside of you, massaging and soothing away the agony. The weight of his body atop of yours, so solid and secure. You can just about feel the pressure of his pelvis grinding into you. The friction from the coarse curls at the base of his cock getting you closer and closer.

“Know you’d do so good,” he cuts himself off with a low noise, “so damn sexy.”

“What else would you do with me?” You wanna hear it. For your own fantasy and to know what he’s into.

“I’d have you taking me down your throat til you’re crying on it for me, fuck,” a primal noise erupts from him.

Face fucking. Of course. You can’t deny that when he says it, your body responds instantaneously. Your pussy floods eagerly at the idea, and your cheeks burn hot from the visual he gives you. You swallow down your moans, and you can imagine the weight of him on your tongue and the strain of trying to swallow around his cock.

“You wanna come down my throat?” As if that isn’t a fucking siren song that would make him steer a fleet of ships into a cliff? Your salacious words are too much.

“Shit. Yeah, baby, wanna watch you swallow for me.” You let all your moans and gasps flow freely for him to hear. “I’m so fuckin’ close,” he can’t stop the words from spilling out his mouth, “let me hear it, baby,” he can’t stop his pending bliss either. “Please, baby, I can’t, oh f-fuck,” he cuts himself off with another primitive grunt, and that’s precisely what your cavewoman cunt wanted to hear.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” The horny goblins chant out loud this time. You can envision sweaty, pleading Joel lurching toward a reckless, full-body climax.

You’re far from grace when the crude sounds he lets out turn you into an uncivilized beast. You hear him gasping, growling, and whining for you. It plunges you into a staggering orgasm. Rolling waves of ecstasy leave you panting and sweating.

You lie in bed, chest rising and falling beneath the Creed logo. You’re left stunned at the intensity. A dreamy smile spreads across your face, and warm contentment, like honey, pours slowly over your muscles. Relaxing you as your tension softens and you turn to pick your phone back up.

Why was it so wholly consuming just to listen to him? Imagining the mess he made again,

because of you.

Maybe you’re just made for each other.

You and Joel.

Oh, god. You should start listening to Alanis Morissette and Evanescence and trade your car for a 1990s-era Toyota 4runner and a pack of Marlboro Smooths. Really lean into matching his freak and the divorced alt-rock vibes.

You laugh softly into your phone before a deep sigh possesses you, and you nearly fall asleep. You stretch and smile, letting your heavy eyelids rest.

He’s muttering something at you, catching his breath from the stress of being that fucking horned up for you all evening. And the overexertion of lasting long enough to hear your sweet cries of release.

“You’re unreal,” his smoky voice rings with awe. “Got me shooting loads like a fucking teenager.”

You snort at the juxtaposition of his tender voice and crude comment before ending the call with a whispered, “Goodnight.”

It shouldn’t make you smile.

But he’s somehow such an enticing disaster. A cliche lonely bachelor, a cocksure idiot who knows he’s got a big dick and a generous guy who was willing to fix a stranger's car.

You shouldn’t be trying to justify it, but you know he had you figured out earlier.

You may be sated tonight, but you won’t be able to rest.

Not until you get your hands on that DILF – or rather, your pussy on that dick.

-> Part 3

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romerona · 1 month ago

Text

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years, however, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Parts: 1-2-3-4

Warnings: Reader glazing, like to the max, PINNING CREGAN STARK, JEALOUS CREGAN STARK.

He should not have let his father drag him again to the south.

Everything was too warm, too perfumed, too full of unnecessary talk. The men dressed like peacocks, the wine was too sweet, and the courtiers never stopped smiling. Smiling when they didn’t mean it, smiling when they lied, smiling like their faces were carved from ivory and wax instead of blood and bone.

Cregan didn’t trust it, not any of it, never had.

Give him wind and stone, snow underfoot and steel that spoke plain. He had no need for this—this spectacle.

He shifted where he stood beneath the shadowed arches of Harrenhal’s gallery, arms crossed, gaze scanning the great hall like a wolf watching sheep. The lords drank, the ladies laughed, silk rustled, and gold gleamed and... and then his eyes found you.

Across the room, cast in the honeyed glow of candlelight and surrounded by laughter that always seemed too loud for the time of day, there you were.

Your gown was pale red again, soft and fine, a whisper of rose, like embroidered petals spun into silk. The gown flowed about your form like mist curling over morning frost, near translucent at the hem, and gods damned him, it suited you far too well. Your hair, silver, as any dragonlord’s, had been wound in coils and braids, small pearls glinting in the strands like stars scattered across snow.

And you were moving, as ever, never still, turning, leaning, laughing with that lilting, careless charm you wielded like a blade dulled just enough to disarm.

There were men about you. Mostly men. Young and old lords puffed up with pride, squireborn heirs from the Reach and the Riverlands, even a Tyrell or two—circling, vying for your eye like moths to a flame. Gods, the way they tripped over their own tongues just to hear you speak their name. Fools, the lot of them.

Cregan’s jaw ticked.

You played the court as one might a harp, every note carefully plucked. The touch of your hand on a forearm, the tilt of your head, the smile just wide enough to promise something you’d never give. And your laughter, it rang bright, a touch too bright, like you wanted the whole damned hall to hear it.

But your eyes… those lilac eyes ruined the act, because he knew the truth of them. Keen and cool, always watching, always weighing. A fox, or rather a dragon, in a den of pups, waiting to pounce.

He’d known it from the moment you first looked at him all those years ago, when you were still more shadow than flame yet still as bothersome as ever, way before the court had taught you how to smile with your teeth.

His thoughts dragged him back, against his will, to mornings past. A day when the rain had fallen heavily that night, and the earth was still thick with it, all muck and soft churned clay. He’d been riding toward the tiltyard when he saw you—standing close to that Dornish whelp, Prince Qyle, all honeyed words and idle hands. You’d been twirling a wilted flower between your fingers like it were nothing, just another prop in your never-ending play.

Cregan knew he ought to have taken the longer path around. Could have dismounted, even shown courtesy, as was expected in such company. But when the Dornish prince caught sight of him astride his black stallion, and bent to whisper something low against your ear, something that made your lips curl in a quiet chuckle as you cast your gaze his way—well, that was that.

He tightened the reins and nudged his stallion forward with the heel of his boot.

He let the stallion trot straight through the narrow lane, hooves striking hard against the wet cobbles. The animal tossed its head and snorted, restless from the morning chill, and just as it passed the pair of you, one deliberate step, one well-placed clatter, the horse kicked back.

A great splash of muck arced through the air, thick and heavy, and landed true. Brown water and black earth struck the lower half of your gown, marring the pale silk like spilled ink. The prince's robe caught the edge of it too—less so, but enough to draw a hiss between his teeth.

You gasped, he heard it loud and clear.

The Dornishman's hand froze mid-gesture, fingers still half-curled where they'd been tracing lazy shapes in the air, likely some tale meant to dazzle you.

Cregan pulled the reins, reining the stallion to a halt just a few strides ahead. The echo of hooves faded into the damp air, but he let the moment stretch, hanging between them like a drawn bowstring. Then, slow as ice melting on stone, he turned in the saddle, just enough to glance back over his shoulder.

Your eyes were fire, narrowed and unflinching, the sort of look meant to scorch. But he’d grown up in the cold, fire didn’t frighten him—it only drew him closer.

His face, though, betrayed nothing. No smirk, no spark of satisfaction. Just the still, stony countenance of a Stark—carved in the likeness of winter itself. “My deepest apologies, Princess, the horse is northern-bred. Skittish around snakes.”

And with that, he nudged the reins and rode on, leaving the silence behind him thick as snowclouds.

He should’ve known better than to think you’d let the insult lie. No, retaliation, for you, was as inevitable as winter, and perhaps more cunning. He knew that from experience.

So when the morning of the next tilting day dawned warm and light, with banners fluttering like lazy birds over the tourney grounds and the scent of trampled grass thick in the air, Cregan should have known.

Per his father’s request—always his father’s request—he made his way toward the benches set aside for those of noble blood not riding that round. A place to sit in half-bored judgment, to sip watered wine and pretend to enjoy the strutting of hedge knights and second sons in gilded armor. He scarcely offered a nod to the Lord of Raventree seated beside him, all sharp jaw and crow-black cloak, before easing down into the chair provided.

He should’ve known.

Should’ve noticed the way your gaze lingered when he passed by, half-lidded and amused, as if waiting for something to happen. The subtle curl of your lips, wicked and knowing, as you leaned close to whisper into the ear of that puffed-up Lady of Oldtown draped beside you in lace and perfume. Whatever you said made the woman titter behind her hand, though her eyes darted toward him with poorly-hidden glee.

It was all there, plain as the rising sun and yet, like some green boy fresh from the Wolfswood and too slow to read a room, he’d missed it.

So he sat, and at once, he knew something was amiss.

The chair was off, just the slightest wrongness to it, a barely-there wobble, as though one of its legs had been wedged into soft earth or poorly crafted from the start. It shifted beneath his weight, subtle as a breath, but enough to raise the hairs on his neck.

But before he could rise, before he could so much as glance beneath the carved wooden frame, or even shift his weight—

Crack.

The sound rang sharp through the tiltyard, clean and sudden as a snapped bowstring. In one humiliating instant, the leg beneath him gave out with a dry, splintering groan, aged wood shattering like a rotted branch in winter. The entire bench tilted, and there was no time to catch himself.

Cregan Stark—heir of Winterfell, son of the North, blood of the first man, six feet and more of hardened muscle and quiet menace, toppled backwards like a felled pine. His shoulders struck the packed earth with a deep thud, and a cloud of dust billowed up around him, startling the nearby horses and silencing the surrounding chatter for the briefest of beats.

It began with a single, stifled snort, likely from some hedge knight who thought himself clever and then others joined in, a ripple of laughter, low and rising, lords and ladies craning their necks to glimpse what had befallen the proud Stark. Highborn men with goblets halfway to their lips turned in their seats, and silk-clad maidens leaned forward for a better view, hands fluttering to their mouths with exaggerated gasps that barely masked their amusement.

Through it all, Cregan lay there, unmoving.

Dust clung to his shoulders, to the wool and leather of his tunic, but Cregan Stark did not move. He stared skyward, jaw clenched, fury simmering just beneath the surface, contained, but not tamed. The blood in his veins beat hot and heavy, each thrum a reminder that he'd been made a spectacle. A fool.

A young Stark knight, one of his father’s men, rushed toward him from the edge of the list, eyes wide with concern. Another followed, hand half-outstretched, stammering something about aid.

Cregan rose before they reached him.

In a single motion, fluid and unyielding, he pushed himself upright with the force of a man who would not be helped, not here, not like this. He stood tall amidst the cloud of settling dust, and with deliberate care, brushed the earth from his sleeves, his chest, the backs of his legs. He did not wince nor he glare. His face remained a mask of wintered stone.

Toward the noble pavilion, toward the place where you sat among your dragon-laced kin, posture flawless as ever, chin high like you hadn’t just orchestrated his fall.

Your hand covered your mouth, delicate as a snow-lily, your eyes wide and glistening with well-feigned concern.

But your shoulders… your shoulders were trembling—barely—with restrained laughter, the kind only a seasoned court player could mask so sweetly. Not so your brother, seated just beside you, who was guffawing without shame, shoulders shaking as he doubled over in mirth, utterly ignoring the sharp, chastening glance his mother—mother-the Queen-cast his way from beneath her veil.

Cregan knew you had done it.

Gods knew how, whether through coin, charm, or whispered command. Perhaps you hadn’t dirtied your hands at all—but the deed bore your touch. He could see it in your eyes, even now. That flicker of triumph behind the veil of false concern. That wicked gleam, hidden beneath a princess’s poise.

And his honor be damned, he would answer it.

By the fifth day of the tournament, the game was no longer a game, it was war, quiet and glittering and dressed in silk.

A war waged beneath the notice of every lord and lady at Harrenhal, veiled behind manners and pageantry, but no less brutal for its subtlety.

The morning of the archery competition, your prized mare, a gift from the king, your father, soft as snowdrift, white as fresh snow, and pampered beyond sense, was found soaked to the haunches in pond muck. Some stablehand, well-bribed and firmly warned to keep his tongue behind his teeth, had somehow forgotten to latch her stall. A mistake, of course. Entirely accidental.

The beast was unharmed, save for the humiliation, but your temper was another matter. You’d arrived to the mid-morning procession late, skirts lifted above your ankles, a flush to your cheeks and a pin half-loosened in your hair. And when your eyes met his across the feast table later that evening, you smiled, a slow, syrup-sweet thing that might’ve fooled any man unfamiliar with your ways.

Then, his boots were mysteriously gone, not misplaced. Gone.

He had searched everything thirce over, paced the floor, flung open trunks, snapped at his attending squire with ice in his tone—but they were nowhere to be found. And with the melee drawing near, he’d been left with no choice but to wear his soft riding shoes, the ones meant for long walks and diplomatic strolls, not blood and dirt.

He had looked ridiculous.

The soles slipped with every turn in the yard, his footing unreliable in the churned soil. Ser Vardis Egen observed with mild concern, offering the occasional half-hearted comment, while Ser Tyland Lannister sat nearby with a goblet in hand and a smile twitching beneath his beard. And Prince Qyle of Dorne, the absolute cunt, laughed outright, loud and unrestrained, his delight echoing across the yard like a challenge.

Cregan bore it in silence, jaw tight as drawn steel.

It wasn’t until dusk that he found them: his boots, stuffed full of lavender sachets and tucked neatly into the velvet cradle of the Queen’s favorite marble swan in the garden and the damn bird pecked him when he tried to retrieve them.

The next joust, he struck back.

Your parasol—delicate, dove-grey, and trimmed in Myrish lace—had been ever your shield against the sun. But that morning, it was just slightly off. Same color, same trim but not quite the same make, the ribs of the frame were looser, less tempered. Weakened just enough to give at the slightest strain.

One of his father’s men had arranged the exchange, quiet as snowfall, slipping it in place while your handmaid was fetching sugared wine.

You hadn’t noticed, not until the breeze picked up.

The first gust caught the parasol like a sail, turning it in your grip with a violent snap. It twisted, wild and graceless, tugging your braid loose and whipping across your cheek. The lace slapped Lady Blackwood full across the face with such force that it knocked her down, drawing a very unladylike yelp.

You smiled through your teeth, composed and controlled as you helped the lady, but he saw the embarrassment and fury in your eyes.

And across the field, seated beneath his House’s banner with the ease of a man entirely unbothered, Cregan lifted his cup of northern wine, took a slow sip, and did not look away from you.

Not once.

Days later, you struck again.

This time, it was the saddle soap or rather, the lack of it.

Cregan had only realized something was wrong once he’d mounted his stallion. The reins, polished and gleaming, looked well-kept—but they slid through his fingers like oiled silk. Too smooth, too slick and when the beast felt the uncertainty in his grip, it reared.

Not gently, not a simple jolt, a full buck, sharp and sudden.

He hit the hay with all the grace of a dropped shield, shoulder-first into the straw with a dull thud that knocked the breath from his lungs. His squire looked one breath away from coughing up a lung with laughter as he tried to help.

Cregan rose slow, straw clinging to his hair, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked. He did not speak, merely turned his head, just so and looked up.

From across the yard, shaded beneath a silken canopy with the kind of grace only royalty dared to wear like armor, you lifted one dainty hand and offered him a polite little wave.

A picture of composure and a portrait in mockery.

By now, it was no longer about besting one another—not truly. No winner would be named, no tally kept. The game had become something sharper.

It was about breaking first.

About who would falter beneath the weight of silence, who would let their smile slip just enough to reveal the strain beneath. Who would crack beneath the delicate tension they’d spun between them, thread by thread, day by day, until it stretched tight as a bowstring across the halls of Harrenhal.

Not a soul around them seemed to notice.

And the worst part, the part that made his hands curl at his sides, that gnawed at him even when sleep would not come, was that you enjoyed it, and gods help him, so did he.

More than he would ever be willing to admit. More than honour would allow. There was something addictive about it—the dance, the dares, the constant tilt of balance between them. The way you always smiled was like a secret you wouldn't tell him.

He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he craved it more than he loathed it.

His thoughts drifted back to that morning, the final day of the tourney.

The victor, Ser Gwayne Hightower, all polished silver and smug ceremony, had ridden like a man possessed. Every tilt he charged down like it were holy ground, unseating each and every challenger without hesitation, even that arrogant peacock Qyle of Dorne. The crowd had roared with delight, lords and ladies, hedge knights and handmaidens alike, caught up in the spectacle of it all. Songs would be written, no doubt. A hundred ballads for his damnable form and flawless seat.

And when the dust had settled, when the banners hung still and the crowd quieted in breathless anticipation, it came time to name his Queen of Love and Beauty.

Of course, he chose you.

He’d barely paused before riding to the center of the yard, lifting a circlet of woven wildflowers high above his head as if the gods themselves had guided his hand. And you stood tall amidst it all, in a pale violet silk that clung and fluttered like the wings. The sunlight caught in your hair, you looked every bit the royal prize, and yet untouched by it.

You had the audacity to look surprised.

To blink sweetly, mouth parted just so, before offering that graceful little dip of the head, accepting the woven crown as though you hadn’t seen it coming, as though you hadn’t known that every fool in Westeros would crawl through ash and blood to place it upon you.

The crowd had roared as Ser Gwayne Hightower placed the garland of summer roses upon your brow, each petal bright and soft and utterly unworthy of the thorns you kept hidden beneath. Cheers echoed like thunder across the tiltyard, lords and ladies rising to their feet, banners fluttering as minstrels struck up some syrupy tune fit for a tale told in silk.

Cregan clapped, yes—but only out of obligation, politeness, duty. The way one might bow before a king they did not serve.

Then, cease his clapping when Gwayne bowed low and pressed his lips to your hand, all chivalry and gleaming armour. He did not flinch when the crowd howled their approval in his ear, he tried not to roll his eyes when your silks caught the wind just so and half the court sighed like they'd seen a vision from the Seven themselves.

And he certainly did not move when your gaze swept the stands searching, perhaps, and passed him by without pause then back at the knight...

And why should you look at Cregan?

He had no place in such pageantry. No part in flower crowns and silken smiles, in knights who stank of rosewater and spoke in verse like singers on a stage. No taste for polished helms or banners stitched by noble ladies with trembling hands. Songs written before supper, hearts offered like coin—it was all foolishness. Southern folly dressed in gold.

He was a bloody Northman.

He wore wool, not lace; he fought to survive, not to win the favour of an annoying princess. All of this, this jousting, this crowning of beauties, this endless parade of flattery and farce, was stupid.

Silly.

Unnecessary.

Utterly idiotic.

Gods, he thought, jaw tight as he watched the crowd fawn over Gwayne and his silver-draped triumph, why does my father always insist on dragging us into this nonsense?

Later that day, just before dusk and the feast, he’d wandered along the riverside—quiet, shaded, far from the noise of feast tents and banners.

Cregan spotted you just past the bend in the river, with a glower on you face and alone, a rare thing.

At first, he thought it must be someone else—some servant girl or highborn cousin wandering off after the day’s madness. But then you turned your head just enough, and that braid of silver hair caught the fading light, and he knew.

The Queen of Love and Beauty, crowned just hours ago by that tool of Gwayne Hightower, now skirts hiked slightly in one hand, barefoot and skulking through river mud like a fisher’s daughter.

Cregan watched from the treeline, arms crossed, one brow ticking ever so slightly upward.

“Careful, Princess,” he drawled, stepping into view, voice low and iron-edged. “The river’s known to pull fools under.”

You flinched—barely, just a twitch in the shoulders, a pause in breath, but enough to satisfy something petty in him. Then you straightened, turning to face him with your chin high and your expression cool as shaded wine.

“Then perhaps it will take us both,” you said, voice light as if you were commenting on the weather. You lifted your silks a touch higher, water trailing from your toes as you stepped back onto the dry grass. “Though I do imagine you’d sink faster.”

Cregan’s mouth twitched, almost but not quite, into a smile. “Mayhaps, though I’ve heard northern blood runs thick. Takes longer to drown.”

You rolled your eyes, sharp as cut glass.

“What’s thick is your skull, Stark,” you said, brushing a strand of wind-tossed hair from your cheek with all the elegance of royalty and the ire of a dragon about to strike. “And if I weren’t presently engaged in something far more important, I’d be more than happy to test that theory.”

Cregan tilted his head, stepping down the bank toward you, boots sinking just slightly into the soft earth.

“Important, is it?” he asked, gaze narrowing. “Must be something dire, to bring the Queen of Love and Beauty sneaking barefoot through river muck like a common poacher."

You lifted your chin, refusing to cede even a sliver of ground. “Some things are worth muddy feet.”

Cregan huffed, low and amused, the sound almost a laugh. “Aye? And what would those be, Princess?”

You scoffed, turning away with a shake of your head, skirts swaying.

“None of your bloody business,” you muttered, bending to the damp earth to pick up a small stone, though it served no purpose but to be flung aside with force, more gesture than action.

He watched you in silence, then his eyes drifted downward.

Near your discarded slipper, half-buried in the soft earth, sat a small, smooth stone, different from the others, lighter, polished. He stepped forward without thinking, nudged it loose with the toe of his boot, then bent at the waist, fingers brushing the mud to lift it.

You saw it and lunged, skirts tangling at your ankles as your hand shot out. “Don’t you—!”

But it was too late. Cregan had already straightened, turning the stone over in his hand. It was smooth and flat, its edges worn gentle by time and water, pale in hue, and vaguely heart-shaped.

He looked at it, then at you, and snorted.

“This?” he said, voice laced with disbelief, the faintest edge of amusement curling beneath. “All this fuss for a pebble?”

Your glare could have withered crops, and lunged again, faster this time, a flash of silk and bare feet through the mud but he was quicker.

Cregan lifted the stone just above her reach, his arm high and out of range with practised ease. You made a sound, a frustrated, breathless huff and swiped at his wrist anyway, though it did little more than ruffle his sleeve.

“You oaf,” you hissed, eyes narrowed as you stepped closer, “give it back.”

He arched a brow, holding the little thing aloft as though weighing its worth.

“You mean this bit of river rock?” he said, voice low, deliberately slow, the stone turning between his fingers.

“It’s not just a rock,” you said, reaching for it again, when he didn’t give it back, you groan in exasperation and shoved him.

He staggered, more surprised than moved. “Gods, woman—”

This time, you were closer—close enough that he caught the scent of lilac and something wilder beneath it. Your hand brushed his forearm as you reached, and his pulse kicked, traitorous and unwanted.

Gods, but you were stubborn.

“It’s mine,” you added, voice quieter now, as if you hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Cregan looked at you then, really looked, the crown of wildflowers from earlier still rested crooked on your head, strands of wind-tangled silver caught in your lashes, mud on your feet, a fury in your eyes.

He should have let you have it... but he didn’t. “What makes it worth all this, then?”

"None of your business," You reached again suddenly, without warning and this time, you came too close.

Your fingers grazed his forearm, and your body leaned into his space, the silken brush of your skirts whispering against his boots, mud and river reeds forgotten entirely. You looked up at him, eyes bright with defiance and something else, something unspoken and sharper than your words had ever been. Cregan froze. The stone was still in his hand, but for a moment he couldn’t remember what it was or why they were even standing here, soaked and half-snarling in the shallows like fools.

The world stilled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Your brow was furrowed, lips parted slightly from the effort of keeping them still, and your breath fanned lightly against the hollow of his throat. He could feel the heat rising between them, his grip on the stone tightened slightly, the pulse in his wrist betraying the stillness of his face.

His gaze drifted, just slightly, just once, to your plump-looking lips and wonder how would they feel like…

Just for a heartbeat, just long enough to curse himself for thinking that and for glancing at your lips. It wasn’t intentional, but it happened all the same, and when he looked back up, he saw that you had noticed. Your gaze narrowed, your breath hitched just slightly, and something shifted between them, not enough to name, but enough to feel.

But before either of them could move, before anything could slip loose between pride and impulse, there came a sound—a rustle in the nearby brush, too heavy for wind. It was followed by the distant murmur of voices, perhaps a pair of squires or a drunken knight circling back toward the tourney fields. Whatever it was, it broke the moment like a snapped branch underfoot.

They both stepped back at once, as if the river itself had surged between them.

Your were the first to recover, of course. You folded your arms across your chest and lifted your chin high, wrapping yourself back in that princess’s poise as easily as donning a cloak. Your expression was unreadable again, the bare hint of vulnerability vanished like dew in daylight. If your hands trembled slightly at your sleeves, you made no sign of it.

Cregan said nothing, but an unwanted, newfound feeling in his chest had appeared before being squeezed down.

Without a word, and with something far gentler than mockery, he lowered the stone into your waiting palm.

You didn’t close your fingers around it at first. You just stared down at it, quiet and unmoving, the curve of your thumb running slowly across its pale surface, as if trying to memorize its shape by feel alone. The wind pulled at the ends of your hair, the water lapping faintly behind them, but you stood still, as though made of glass.

When you spoke, it was barely above a whisper—just enough for him to hear and no one else. “It was my mother’s.”

Your voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—a thread of rawness he hadn’t heard before. It wasn't the stone that was yours, not truly. Not some keepsake passed down from hand to hand, tied with ribbon and laid in a velvet-lined box. But it was yours all the same.

“The Septa told me she would pocket smooth stones and line them up on the windowsill. This is the only one I’ve ever found,” you added after a pause, your gaze still fixed on the stone in your palm,

Cregan didn’t answer right away.

How could he? What was there to say to that? His teasing, the game, the smirks across feast tables—all of it seemed to fall away under the weight of that one truth. That this slip of river stone, smooth and pale and faintly shaped like a heart, was the closest thing you had to a woman you had never known, and would never be able to.

You lifted your chin then, defiant once more, but the fire behind your eyes had shifted—no longer anger, not entirely. “I know it’s foolish, but it’s mine.”

The feeling in his chest deepened—not from guilt, not exactly, but from something like understanding. Not pity, not really, he knew what it meant to carry a legacy one barely remembered, his own lady mother had died when he was young too but at least he had some memories, he knows what is like to hold tight to some sliver of a ghost and pretend it was enough to fill the hollow it left behind.

And looking at you now, barefoot in the mud, hair pulled loose, fingers curled around something that mattered more than anyone else could ever guess…. he felt like a brute.

“It’s not foolish,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.

Something had shifted, just slightly but enough that he felt it.

You cleared your throat, a soft and subtle sound that might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else, but not him.

Then, without another glance, you bent to retrieve your shoes from the mud, slipping them on with practiced ease, one after the other, as if nothing at all had been said. As if you hadn’t nearly tripped into his arms, as if he hadn’t, for half a breath, felt like you were the only thing that still moved beneath the sun.

Your back to him now, chin lifted, voice light as summer wine—but with the bite of frost beneath it. “I hope you get eaten by a bear out here, Stark.”

Cregan exhaled through his nose, slow, steady.

He didn’t offer some sharp retort, didn’t rise to the bait you dangled so expertly with every word, he only stood there, boots planted firm in the riverbank mud, watching as you walked away—head held high, skirts damp, fingers still curled around that gods-damned river stone like it was a relic. A crown not worn on your head, but carried on your spine.

A part of him almost wished the bear would find him—if only to shake this feeling loose from his ribs and put something simpler in its place.

He continued to stare at you from across the great hall, jaw tight, arms folded, doing his best to feign interest in whatever dull accounting Lord Beesbury was droning into his cup. Something about tariffs or barley or Gods knew what else. Cregan hadn’t heard a word in several minutes.

His attention was elsewhere.

You, seated two long tables away, bathed in firelight and surrounded, as always, by eager company. Your laugh rang out again, bright and easy, tossed like a ribbon toward the bloody Prince of Dorne who was speaking with animated hands, eyes fixed on you.

You laughed at something the Dornishman said, tilting your head, fingers brushing your mouth, as if he’d said the cleverest thing ever spoken. The prince, all polished bronze and desert silk, leaned in closer as if your amusement were a prize to be won, as if he were the only man clever enough to earn it.

Cregan, for the life of him, could not fathom what was so godsdamned pleasant about the man.

He truly couldn’t.

The prince had attention wherever he went, nearly as much as you, though not quite. And why? What did he offer, truly? The man was hollow as a polished shell, pretty enough to look at, perhaps, but there was no weight to him. No spine. No depth. Just the glint of arrogance beneath all that cultivated charm, the soft pride of a man too used to being admired and never once questioned.

An empty fool wrapped in silk and ceremony.

And yet, there you stood, letting him speak to you like the two of you were written into some bard’s song, tilting your head, lashes low, smiling like you hadn’t already heard better from half the court.

Cregan’s gaze didn’t waver. He’d seen that smile before. He’d earned it, once or twice when you weren’t sharpening your wits on him like a blade on stone.

If Cregan didn’t know better—if he didn’t know you better—he might have thought the two of you were a match crafted by song and scroll. Both beautiful, both sharp, courtly fire and southern sun, dancing hand-in-hand for the poets to weep over.

But he did know you, or he liked to think so.

Cregan had known you for years now. Not well, perhaps, not in the way soft-tongued courtiers whispered in parlours or lovers spoke of in candlelit poems but long enough to notice things. The details others missed between the blooms of your gowns, the weight of your title, and your lilac eyes.

The way your fingers drummed softly against your goblet when you were bored out of your mind. The way you offered a smile with your lips but not your eyes when you were lying through your teeth. He knew that you bit the inside of your cheek when you were holding back words sharper than the court could bear. How you hated being underestimated, but loathed being fully known even more.

You carried your charm like a blade, sharp, balanced, and always within reach, but there were cracks in the steel. He’d seen them. Once or twice.

He remembered how you twisted your rings when you were restless, seen you braid your hair when you were angry, seen your silence grow colder than any wind north of the Neck when you’d been wounded, though you’d never admit it aloud.

And he wasn’t sure when he started noticing these things. Maybe it was at a feast three summers past, when you’d laughed at a jest just a moment too late or at someone's name day years before that, and Cregan, despite it all, had watched, not always willingly, but often enough.

And the prince, for all his polish and poetry, didn’t know it.

Would never know it.

He wouldn’t know what to do with you—not truly. Not when your temper burned hot as dragonflame, fierce and sudden and near-impossible to smother. Not when your silences stretched long and deep, the kind that could drown a man more thoroughly than any tide. Not when your words, always sweet, always measured, carried blades tucked neatly beneath the honey, sharper than most steel.

No, this—this performance was court-born. A game, a dance for the galleries and the ladies perched high above with lace fans and narrowed eyes. Cregan saw that plainly, saw you.

And he knew that the true heart of you was something rarer. Sharper, more complicated, a thing with teeth and grace and an obstinate will. Proud, yes, far too proud for your own good, but not cruel, not false. There was a goodness in you, buried somewhere beneath the silks and smirks and carefully arranged smiles.

And that part, the part the prince would never think to look for, would never sit neatly in the arms of a man like him. A prince of warm coasts and easy charm. You’d twist too sharp, you’d bend too little, you’d outpace him before the first frost.

The match was beautiful, there was no denying it, striking in the way painted things often were —lovely to behold, to admire, to sight at, but utterly hollow in the holding.

You needed someone who could match your fire, truly match it.

Not just bask in its warmth, not tame it or twist it into something quieter or fold beneath it in worship. Not a soft-mouthed poet who called it beautiful and stepped back when it roared too loud.

No, you needed someone who could burn with you and not falter. Someone who wouldn’t look away when the heat rose, who wouldn’t crumble when your pride flared sharp and your words came like knives, someone who wouldn’t mistake your fury for madness or your silence for softness.

You needed someone who could take the scorch and keep standing, someone who would not try to possess or tame or twist you into something smaller, prettier, easier to carry.

You would gnaw through those leashes before you ever bowed your head.

Not... that it was his place to think any of this. He reminded himself of that as he downed the last of his wine in one long pull, the taste sharp and heavy on his tongue. His gaze remained fixed across the hall, watching as your laughter curled around the prince’s shoulders like smoke.

He told himself it didn’t matter, that you would not be his to consider, not his to dwell upon, not his to study like some half-read book he couldn’t put down.

And the gods knew he’d tried.

Cregan Stark was not a man given to folly, he didn’t chase after courtly fancies or whisper dreams into goblets like the soft-mouthed knights from the Reach or the north. He kept his thoughts where they belonged—silent, steady, guarded.

But this one? You?

You had a way of turning everything he knew sideways. Always had. Gods, he hated it—how easily you unsettled things, how quickly you slipped beneath his skin. He hated how you made the world tilt ever so slightly, just enough to feel it.

And damn it all, he hated how easy it had become to see you, Even when he didn’t want to.... Especially when he didn’t mean to.

These thoughts refused to be kept. They did not listen to reason, or discipline, or the cold logic the North had bred into his bones. They pushed past all of it, quiet and insistent.

He would never speak them aloud, not to himself, not to anyone else, not even in prayer beneath the heart tree—where he had laid darker things before, heavier griefs, deeper oaths.

But still, the thought of you curled at the edges of his mind like smoke from a fire he couldn’t remember starting and with each breath, it burned a little deeper.

A/N:

Hellooooooooo!!!?????

How are you all doing? How is lifee? Hope all is well and happy!!

I just want to say that one of my favourite tropes in literature has been and will always be the ' they fell first and harder', honestly, I think this is the only way a relationship could work, either irl or fiction. The LI has to be a little obsessed with the reader since the start or like them more than the reader likes them, and I'm only human so...

They are getting to the age of marriage, so probably for the next part, it will be dedicated to that.

Thank you for all the support, for the reblogs, comments, and hearts. It helps a lot with motivation. <3<3<3

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max-nico · 1 year ago

Text

It's Tails first birthday with Sonic. Sonic estimates the kid is turning about 4, maybe 5 today. They're sitting at a little diner in some middle-of-nowhere town, partially because they don't have the funds for much more, but also because Tails only said he would like to go to a restaurant for his birthday.

It seemed like an odd choice for a kid, Sonic is pretty sure kids usually ask to go to things like amusement parks, or trampoline parks, or... Regular parks. He's not quite sure what kids like outside of parks, so maybe he's overthinking it.

Still, he asks Tails why he would want to go out to eat anyways. It seems like an odd choice for a rambunctious 4 (5?) year old.

"Oh." He mumbles, "Well I dunno what people do for birthdays, but one time I heard people back at the island talkin'bout going to dinner! I thought that's what people are s'posed to do, am I wrong?"

Sonic frowns for a moment, unsure of how to answer his question. It takes a little work to make the words he's looking for bubble up from his throat, still pretty unused to talking more than what's absolutely necessary.

"No, not really. You're-You are supposed to do what you want for your birthday. Whatever you want." Sonic's words drag in all the wrong places, and linger when he chokes on vowels. "Like, go to the park or.. something. Would you want to go to the park?"

Tails thinks for a moment and shakes his head.

"No, you don't play with me at the park, and I wanna spend my birthday with you, Sonic!"

Way to hit a hedgehog in his heart strings, huh? Normally when they're at a park there's other kids, so he lets them entertain themselves while he takes a nap on a nearby bench. He's not playing because he doesn't want to play, he's trying to encourage Tails to make friends. It seems, he may have screwed up somehow, not in any unfixable way though.

Sonic frowns, "If we go to the park I'm happy to play with you. Do you want to go?"

Tails shakes his head again, "I'm hungry."

Sonic laughs.

The diner staff are polite. They all have slow drawls that make it practically impossible for Sonic to actually listen to them, but by Gaia does he try. They just ask general questions; drinks, food, sauce, sides. Things like that. Sonic makes sure to mention Tails birthday as well, and the lady promises to come back with two free cupcakes.

The entire dinner flies by in no time at all. Tails does most of the talking, as usual, but Sonic tries harder to contribute to the conversations and ask engaging questions. Even when the fox starts going on and on about plane parts and upgrades that Sonic can't even begin to pronounce, let alone grasp what they do.

Soon enough, their dessert is out. Sonic has never been big on any types of sweets, so as soon as the happy birthday song the waiters sing is over he slides his cupcake to Tails side of the booth. It's more than worth it, even if he would've wanted the cupcake, because the kids eyes light up like Sonic has just handed him the stars.

"Are you gonna blow out your candle first?" Sonic chuckles, pointing at Tails own still sparking cupcake.

"Well duh!" He sasses, grinning.

"What're you gonna wish for?"

Again, Tails thinks, wrinkling his nose as if this is the most important question he's ever had to answer.

"It has t'be small." He says. "Just in case."

An eyebrow raise is shot Tails' way. "In case of what?"

"Well, the elders at the island always said wishin' comes at a price, that's why I was born with two tails y'see? So it can't be big, just in case, cuz I can't accidentally trade ya'up! You're more important to me than any wish ever!"

Before Sonic can respond, Tails has blown out his candle. The hedgehog's eyes are a little misty, and his nose is a little runny, unbeknownst to the little fox across from him. Never in Sonic's life has he had anyone be so.. so genuine to him. He's so beside himself with fondness he isn't quite sure what to do with it all, he feels so swollen with love he might explode.

Quietly, Sonic asks him what he wished for.

"Your long and pro-prosperous health! That means ya get to stay healthy for a long long time." Tails smiles but his face is deadly determined, as if he's truly trying to will his wish into existence by sheer force of will alone.

Sonic supposes he'll have to wish for the same thing on his birthday, just to make sure they're even.

Heyyyy y'all !! Should I probably wait until Tails actual birthday to post a birthday fic? Maybe. Do I care? Nope !! Come talk to me !! I don't bite I swear !!!

Sonic, in this fic for some reason: do you want to go to the park?

Tails: no I do not

Sonic: Have you ever gone to the park?

Tails: no I have not

Sonic: will you go to the park?

Tails: maybe...

Sonic: when will you go to the park?

Tails:

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lasirenatarot · 2 years ago

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“ LOOKS-MAXXING ” pick-a-card reading.💝

Your next glow up.

What can you do in order to have a big glow up?

Pick a pink 90s magazine cover:

—>Pile 1

Your next glow up will most likely be related to getting « in peace » with your s€xuality prior to glowing up both physically and mentally. What I mean by this is you will probably need to get rid of any self doubts about your looks, any shame around your $£xual side due to past traumas or for some the way you were raised, some may have been raised in a controlling or conservative family.

One of the ways you can make this glow up happen is if you really enjoy your life and what you do. Try to practice your hobbies more and work on bettering your natural talents, by doing that you may find your purpose in this world and this will lead to the biggest glow up ever.. for some it may lead them to their dream career.

Something which appears in the cards is that you may need to forgive your parents or parental figures for the way they treated you in order to reach peace within yourself and your physical body. Forgive yourself as well for not acting in the « right way » or not looking a certain way, this is the best you could do at that point of your life . It is all in the past.

As for a physical glow up: judging by the pictures shown on the cards that fell, maybe start focusing on a regular work out routine, focusing on legs, butt or whatever you feel like you need to improve. Updating your clothing style may benefit you a lot. Stop caring about what others would say and pick clothes which give you freedom of expression, be yourself shamelessly. Some of you who chose this pile may have some creative vision which they may have been scared to express - do it. Meditation may help with your « glow up » in some form as well. Try bolder makeup looks and outfit choices.

Moodboard/Vibes for pile 1:

The vibes I get from this pile is totally Julia Fox as a persona,not only style wise. She’s unapologetically herself, maybe for some she’s a bit weird. But the main point is, despite people’s opinions and perceptions of her, she has always followed her own rules and expressed herself. Before she got famous she was a dominatrix, did a photobook, an art exhibition aand starred in a famous movie in which her character was inspired by her real life . All this happened because she was authentic,lived her life the way she wanted and followed her heart, exactly what u should do as well,pile 1.

Songs which remind me of this pile’s vibe:

—>Pile 2

Pile 2, you’re going through or will go through a huge transformation.. luck will definitely be on your side and you may find out answers for things which you’ve always wanted to know about. ( it can be pretty much about anything. If we are talkibg about a physical glow up exclusively, you may learn some very good beauty hacks soon. It can be about makeup, diet, exercise, skin care, personal development etc.. this is a general reading so I cannot be exact but whatever your case is it will lead to a HUGE glow up. Two of the cards are talking about some « secret knowledge » so whatever it is it will be significant for you.

This pile is very different from the first one as the glow up that appears here is not just about one or two things in your life or looks, it’s about everything. The things you can do in order to glow up faster, pile2, is maybe start watching makeup tutorials and pay attention to new techniques or products you haven’t heared before, ask people for where they shop they may tell you some secret thrift store with really cool clothes which can uplift your style.. anything which can help you get this « secret knowledge » which appeared in the cards. Another thing I can say for this pile is: focus on manifestation, envision the changes in your looks or life as a whole you would like to have and act accordingly in your 3D universe in order to get to where you want to be. Positive affirmations and subliminals (as in subliminals I mean not the crazy unrealistic ones, but those about self concept, confidence and beauty in general) may also be helpful in your case.

Moodboard/Vibes for pile 2:

The vibes I get here are Fran from “The Nanny” and Maddy from “Euphoria”. Fashionable, bold, colourful. Radiating confidence. Crystals, glitter, sparkle, feathers, bold and colourful makeup, everything of that sort. Do not dim your own light to make someone else feel better about themselves if they are insecure.

Songs which remind me of this pile’s vibe:

—>Pile 3

Pile 3: I think you would definitely be bettering your financial situation sooner than you may have even expected, this may help you get a glow up. You would be able to afford nicer things, skincare, clothes, procedures etc.. If you’re not already on a path to improve your finances, then you would definitely be motivated to start working on this problem soon and be very committed on your mission of « glowing up » in every way possible. Physically, mentally, spiritually even. You will be finding yourself after a long period of feeling lost and unlike your true self.

You would become much more intuitive, confident and cut throat even, you won’t let energy vampires use you as they may have done in the past and this would lead to a more beautiful and healthy version of you, because you would not have to deal with others’ negativity anymore. When it comes to relationships you would not be satisfied with with mediocrity, you will be finally standing your ground and being true to your standards and what you deserve. You will be getting your justice if you’ve been mistreated in the past.

This pile has huuuge « femme fatale » « dark feminine » vibe. This may be the energy you will be channeling after you have your glow up. Doing classic makeup like red lipstick+ black eyeliner, black smokey eyes and nude lips combo might help you channel this energy that i am seeing here better. Wearing colours like: red, black, gold and nude might help you elevate your look. Also wearing jewelry, lace and high heels. Don’t be scared to embrace your « dark side » which you may have ignored in the past in order to fit in with the crowd.

May sound trivial, but follow your intuition and do what makes you happy, it will make you glow in ways which you have not expected..

Moodboard/Vibes for pile 3:

The vibes I’m getting here are as I said in previous paragraphes: femme fatale, dark feminine energy,monica bellucci core type of look/aesthetics..

Songs which remind me of this pile’s vibe:

That was all from today’s PAC. It was a bit different from previous ones and I myself did not expect it to turn out the way it did, but sometimes completely different information pops up in readings because someone needs to hear a certain thing.. Hope you enjoyed it!!

Leave a comment/feedback if it resonated, share and follow for more.

Thank you for reading!

- La Sirena💋

Decks used: ‘$£xual magic’ oracle deck by Lo Scarabeo; ‘Manara’ €rotic tarot deck by Milo Manara/ Lo Scarabeo;

Photos are from pinterest; all credits to their respective owners.

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bumbl3beetle · 4 months ago

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HI, I'M HERE TO INTRODUCE MY BAND DR!!!

Band name - Mixed SuitCase (MSC)

We are a multi genre band who started out making music in our guitarists closet.

We all met in band class, and we started the band due to boredom, and due to me and the guitarist (Milo) constantly fighting. We hated each other, and the band forced us to get along.

Introducing.. THE MEMBERS !!!

Me !

nickname(s): Luci, girl guy, Lucio

band role: lead singer

age: 16

birthday: 04/01

pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: bisexual

Face claim / look alike claim:

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Marla !

nickname(s): Marls, Marla

band role: drums

age: 16

birthday: 03/26

pronouns: She/they

sexuality: Pansexual

relationship: close friends!

closeness: 9/10

extra (traits, hobbies, tendencies): LOOVES peanut butter. She's allergic to grapes. Her favorite animal is a bearded dragon. Her favorite color is blue. She's very touchy. People often talk over her, and prefers one on one. She has ADHD. She hates coffee, but doesn't mind the flavor. She loves writing lyrics. Her voice claim is "Agnes" from "Fantastic Mr. Fox".

face claim / look alike claim:

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Ruth !

nickname(s): Ruth bear, Ruth berries, Ruth

band role: back up vocals, bassist

age: 16

birthday: 08/18

pronouns: She/her

sexuality: Bisexual

relationship: BESTIES

closeness: 9/10

extra (traits, hobbies, tendencies): Favorite food is cherries. She hates bananas and chocolate. She loves rap but specifically 90s rap. She’s been known to leave her things around, having completely forgotten about them. She has ADHD. Her voice claim is "Young Vi" from "Arcane".

Face claim / look alike claim:

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Milo !

nickname(s): Milo, Mr handsome

band role: guitar

age: 15

birthday: 01/02

pronouns: He/him

sexuality: Bicurious

relationship: Erm close friends? we hated each other

closeness: 10/10

extra (traits, hobbies, tendencies): loves metal (the material). Believes in manifesting. Got his ears pierced when he was born. Learned guitar to “bring in the ladies”. He’s Filipino and Korean. Loves physical touch, his hands are rough. His mother used to go to gay bars just to see pretty outfits. His voice claim is "Rob" from "The Amazing World of Gumball".

Face claim / look alike claim:

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚　˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

We only have two albums currently, "Dear PenPal" and "UnORIGINAL".

The album contents and the artists who made the songs in this reality! ↓

Dear PenPal

Fade into you - Mazzy Star

No other heart - Mac DeMarco

Again & Again - The Bird And The Bee

Iris - Goo Goo Dolls

For the First Time - Mac DeMarco

BIRDS OF A FEATHER - Billie Eilish

Once More to See You - Mitski

.・。.・゜✭・

UnORIGINAL

Clay Pigeons - Michael Cera

Velvet Ring - Big Thief

Linger - The Cranberries

I Just Threw Out The Love Of My Dreams - Weezer

Vampire Empire - Big Thief

Chokehold - Sleep Token

.・。.・゜✭・

I'm currently working on our third album, which will be completely metal! I do eventually want to make an album that is country, and one that is Gothic. Can you see why I chose Mixed SuitCase?

Anyways, thanks for reading! If there's anything you want to know / want me to add to this, lmk!

Have a wonderful day and go shift!! ˙˚ʚ(´◡`)ɞ˚˙

#shifting motivation #shift #shifters #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting blog #shifting community #shifting realities #shifting antis dni #shift reality #desired reality #anti shifters dni #band dr #Mixed SuitCase #MSC #bumbl3beetle

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in-starlit-nights · 1 month ago

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Something About Us - Elriel Fic.

Tip: play Something About Us - Daft punk! Starfall shimmered above Velaris like a thousand whispered dreams. The sky bloomed with falling starlight, streaking in silvery arcs across the night, casting glints over the Sidra’s waters and dancing along the windows of the House of Wind. The celebration had spilled into the terraces and grand halls, alive with music, laughter, and warmth.

Feyre stood with Rhysand, both radiant in deep midnight shades—he in a high-collared tunic threaded with silver constellations, she in a flowing gown that sparkled like the night sky itself. Between them, Nyx babbled and waved his tiny hands, catching the light of the stars. Nesta cradled the babe now, her stern expression softened by laughter as she twirled him once in her arms, his giggles infectious. Beside her, Emerie and Gwyn were glowing in shades of wine and emerald, exchanging stories and teasing Nesta in the way only true friends dared.

Cassian, Rhysand, and Azriel stood slightly apart, each dressed in finery befitting High Fae warriors—Cassian in crimson, Rhys in obsidian, and Azriel in cobalt-trimmed black, the color of his siphons echoed subtly in the embroidery along his sleeves. Their conversation ebbed and flowed between light banter and strategy, though Azriel's shadows clung tighter than usual that night.

Mor and Amren were draped in glamour and indulgence, sharing a bottle of aged wine, their laughter sharp and intoxicating. Mor’s golden gown hugged her curves like sunlight poured into silk, and Amren's silver attire glinted like a blade in moonlight, both goddesses in their own right.

Azriel’s attention shifted as movement near Feyre caught his eye—Lucien. The fox-faced male stood beside the High Lady, offering a low, respectful nod. He wore copper and russet, his mechanical eye gleaming in the light. Azriel's jaw tightened. Lucien’s presence here was no accident. It was political—had to be. A calculated move in Rhys’s ever-evolving plans. Perhaps something to do with the fragile alliance with the Autumn Court… or Helion.

Still, it twisted something inside Azriel to see him standing there, so easily accepted into their circle.

And beyond that, Lucien’s presence made Azriel wonder if Elain would come at all. She was late, and though it had been a while since they’d last spoken, he still clung to hope in those fleeting moments when he could catch a glimpse of her smile—soft and radiant—surrounded by her family. Even if distance had stretched between them like a silent chasm, it was those glimpses, those stolen seconds of watching her near Feyre, near Nyx, near something warm and familiar, that kept him waiting. That made him want. Because even from afar, Elain lit up the room with a grace he could never quite look away from.

And as if the Mother herself had been listening…she entered.

Elain Archeron stepped into the starlit hall like a vision from another world. Her gown was cobalt blue, delicate and flowing, the bodice embroidered with silver threads in floral patterns that shimmered like frost. The color—his siphon’s blue. The same shade she’d worn that first time he’d seen her, when she was still human and yet more ethereal than anything he had ever known.

Azriel froze, heart stalling in his chest.

She moved with grace, pausing beside Rhysand, Cassian, and him. She greeted Rhys with a respectful smile, then Cassian with a fond nod—but when she turned to Azriel, her gaze lingered. As if waking from a trance, Elain bowed before the three Illyrians in a polite, graceful curtsy, and her scent wrapped around him—jasmine and honey , stronger than usual. Potent. Intentional. And just barely, it masked the bond-scent of Lucien.

Elain stepped away before he could speak, her attention turning to Nesta - she pressed a kiss to Nyx’s downy hair, making the baby squeal with delight.

The night wore on, warm and dazzling, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and golden light. For most, it was a celebration—bright, intoxicating. But for two souls caught in quiet longing, it was anything but. While wine flowed freely and conversations buzzed like music in the air, Elain sat alone in a velvet armchair near the edge of the hall. Her posture was composed, elegant as ever—but her gaze was distant, her thoughts far away. Not even the glow of starlight raining down from the skies could reach the corners of her heart that ached for what could never be spoken aloud.

Then—a hand.

Slipping into her line of sight, outstretched in a silent invitation. She blinked at it, hesitating. The music shifted into something slower, softer. With a breath that barely lifted her chest, she took the hand.

Her cobalt gown whispered as she moved toward the dance floor.

“I might not be the right one…” Azriel stepped forward, quiet as a shadow. His wings folded behind him, his face unreadable beneath the soft starlight. He walked with quiet purpose across the marble floor, past the crowd of revelers, and stopped before her. Slowly, reverently, he offered a hand—his hand. The same scarred hand that had wielded blades, ended lives, carried truths too heavy for most to bear. She looked at it, at him, then smiled. Not with surprise or hesitation, but as if she’d been waiting. She placed her fingers in his, and together, they stepped toward the center of the dance floor.

“It might not be the right time…” Elain let herself be guided by the fae male who had approached her so suddenly. She placed her hand in his with grace, though her fingers trembled faintly—just barely. Her breath caught in her throat as her heart stuttered, but she focused on steadying it. She couldn’t allow her emotions to betray her—not here. Not now. She forced her chest to rise and fall slowly, as if the air itself could anchor her, keep her afloat in a sea of expectation and pretense. This was important. This was necessary.

“But there's something about us I've got to do...” Azriel’s gaze flicked to a shadowed corner. He said nothing. She hadn’t looked at him. Not yet.

“'Some kind of secret I will share with you...” And then—she did. Her eyes, bright and unflinching, found his. Directly. Deliberately. She held his gaze as if commanding him to see her—not the mask, not the role she was playing for the sake of diplomacy—but her. Her truth. Her ache. Her choice. It was a single moment in a world that asked for silence, and she gave him everything with a glance.

“I need you more than anything in my life…” Their dances began. Elain glided with practiced elegance, her steps a poem of grace. Her body knew the rhythm even as her mind spun. Her heart beat wildly, but she let the music guide her, let her gown sweep in liquid arcs around her. She was the image of poise. But inside, she was crumbling.

“I want you more than anything in my life…” Azriel moved in perfect sync with his partner, his hand settling with quiet strength at her waist. He turned them slowly, precisely, each motion easy and fluid. But his mind—his soul—was elsewhere. On the scent of jasmine clinging to the air. On the memory of a voice soft as wind. On the touch of a hand he hadn’t held in far too long.

“I’ll miss you more than anyone in my life…” Elain spun. Once, twice—again. The room spun with her, the stars above blurring as if smeared by the tears she refused to shed. She was falling, deeper and deeper into something she couldn’t stop—free falling, as if each carefully arranged part of her life had slipped out of place. Like her body moved on strings someone else pulled, and she was just the puppet dancing. Her chest ached. Her stomach churned. Someone, please, stop this. Azriel, her soul cried, even as her lips remained still. Come get me. Pull me out. Tell me I can stop pretending.

“I love you more than anyone in my life…” The truth hit like thunder, silent but staggering: Azriel was dancing with Mor. Elain was dancing with Lucien. Yet every glance, every unspoken word, passed between them. Their partners were ghosts. The room, a blur.

And still—they danced.

#elriel #elain x azriel #elriel supremacy #azriel x elain #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #pro elain #elain archeron #elriel fanfic

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sparkypantaloons · 1 year ago

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I Protí Forá

Bruce loves his kids, he just really doesn't know how to say it. So he shows it instead, usually with ridiculous displays and gestures of affection. Because he's a billionaire, ya know? And also a massive dork.

Eleven year old Jason comes to realise all of the above, from the middle of the Aegean Sea.

The first time Jason gets on a plane he's eleven.

Bruce is taking them to Greece for a vacation. He says it's because work has been hectic, but Jason's pretty sure it's because he (Jason) has been reading The Odyssey. Bruce might be the whole big boss of Wayne Enterprises, but every meeting Jason's ever overheard from the study starts with Bruce saying "Hello!" all cheery before going "But let me hand you over to the most important man at Wayne Enterprises", and then Mr. Fox takes over, so it can't be all that hectic.

Besides, Bruce does stuff like this sometimes. Like once, Jason told him he'd never seen a basketball game and Bruce took them to see the Gotham Guardsmen versus the Chicago Bulls the very next week. They sat courtside, and Jason had the biggest load of nachos he'd ever had in his whole life, and Bruce even let him try a sip of his beer (which was gross, by the way). And then after the game Jason got to meet both teams and try and shoot some hoops with Michael Jordan, who just "happened" to be there (yeah right, Bruce) and he got a tour of the entire stadium.

So, when Bruce looked over the top of his paper one evening, with the same look he had when he asked if Jason wanted to be adopted, and said "Shall we go to Greece next week?" Jason's pretty sure it's 'cause he (Jason) was reading The Odyssey. And nothing to do with work.

They fly from Newark to Athens, in the first class suite on Etihad. They have their own mini apartment on the plane, with two wide-screen TVs and a double bed, their own bathroom and a shower. It's almost as big as Jason's old apartment in the squat he was living in before Bruce found him, but not quite. It's a lot nicer though and Jason can't quite believe all this is on a plane.

The air crew greet them with a smile and give them bags full of expensive 'amenities' and stuff and hand Bruce a glass of champagne. He tells them he used to have a private jet, but that they're terrible for the environment and he's trying to reduce his carbon footprint. He says it in that stupid voice he does when he's pretending to be what Dick calls a "himbo billionaire" but there's the secret grin at the corner of his mouth that's just for Jason, that makes Jason feel like he's with the best man in the world.

When they're somewhere over the Atlantic, the lady looking after their section asks if Jason would like to see the cockpit. It's not normally allowed, she says, but Mr. Wayne is such a good customer (and man, she adds, batting her eyes at Bruce over Jason's head, as though Jason wouldn't know what she meant) that the Captain has agreed to make an exception.

It's dusk, and the sky from the cockpit is bigger and more brilliant that Jason has ever seen. A glorious canvas of pastel pinks and purple hues, stretching up into a deep dark blue where stars are slowly beginning to blink into life. The Captain greets Jason with a smile and Bruce with a handshake. Explains what all the different lights and buttons and switches mean, and let's Jason wear her hat for a photo.

By the time they land in Athens, Jason is pretty sure this is the second best day of his life. (The first best is the day Bruce adopted him).

They're spend the night at a fancy hotel, in a room on top of a cliff over looking the Saronic Gulf, which Jason has never heard of but is apparently part of the Aegean Sea. They have their own private swimming pool and two huge beds - one each, though Bruce says Jason can still share if he wants to.

The air is warm and thick, even as the day begins to fade, and though he's not that good at swimming yet, Jason is desperate to jump straight into the pool. "After some supper," Bruce promises, sounding a lot like Alfred. But he keeps his word and the two of them lie on their inflatables as night falls. Above them, in the dark, there are more stars in the sky than Jason has seen in his whole life.

The first time Jason has been on a boat he's still eleven.

He and Bruce wander down to a little dock below the cliffs wearing matching boat shoes and shirts. Jason is wearing his Gotham Guardsmen cap and Bruce has a white strip of sunblock under his eyes.

"Technically it's a catamaran" Bruce tells Jason, explaining the difference between hulls of the two as they step aboard. "Kalimera George!" He says, "O gios mou, Jason. Jason, this is our skipper, George."

Later, many years later, Jason will know enough Greek to realise Bruce introduced him as his son, but as he steps aboard the cat all he can do is wonder what Bruce said, smile shyly and shake George's hand.

They sail south from Athens, passing the Temple of Poseidon in coastal Sounio and onto the Aegean Islands. Jason has finished The Odyssey by now, but has moved onto other Greek myths, Theseus and the Minotaur, Artemis and Apollo, Icarus and Daedalus. The sea is a brilliant, turquoise blue, diamond bright under the warm Mediterranean sun and by the time they reach the island of Kythnos, Jason is itching to jump in.

They find a secluded cove, with a small rocky beach and George drops anchor.

"Last one in is a Green Lantern fanboy!" Jason crows, and he leaps from the back deck into the crystal cool water.

It's his first time in the sea, any sea, and he can taste the salt on his lips. The water is calm and he bobs lightly, laughing as Bruce makes a strangled cry and leaps in after him.

"You love Green Lantern!" Jason teases, giggling with his head thrown back to keep it above the surface. He's not so good at treading water yet.

Bruce drifts over to him, pouting. "I wasn't ready, no fair." He says, pulling Jason towards him and onto his back.

Jason closes his eyes to the sun as Bruce swims them round the cove a little.

"Let's swim back to the cat." Bruce says, and Jason chews his lip because it's a little far. "I'll be right beside you." Bruce promises and they swim back to the boat, together.

That night they lie out on the deck and Bruce points out all of the constellations from the Greek myths; Orion and Cassiopeia and Hercules, though obviously Herakles is the proper Greek name for him.

"Whose your favourite Greek hero, B?" Jason asks, his head on Bruce's stomach.

And because he's corny like that, Bruce says "Jason."

Jason's first crush, the first one where it feels like something, he's eleven still, and he and Bruce are on a tiny island called Nykterides. It's a nature reserve for bats and other animals and, honestly, sometimes Bruce is such a nerd, because of course he owns the island too. And of course it's a bat-island. Bat species in the Aegean are vulnerable to habitat loss and climate change (apparently), so the island offers a safe refuge. He tells Jason all of this with a very serious look on his face and all Jason can think is what a huge dork Bruce is. There's a tightness in his chest as he listens to Bruce explain, but it takes him a little while to realise the feeling is fondness.

Only a few local families live on Nykterides, Bruce says, as they sail up to the tiny harbour. The buildings are square and white, with some blue domes but mainly flat, low roofs. Conservation staff also live on the island, scientists and biologists too, and there's a small taverna on the shore where they can eat and drink together.

A boy, no more than 19 greets them as they approach. "Kalispera, Mr. Wayne." He flashes them a smile and Jason feels a little breathless all of a sudden. The boy's skin is a glowing golden bronze, his hair falling in dark, rich waves.

"Kalispera, Giannis." Bruce says, a hand on Jason's head. "This is Jason."

"Ah, like the Argonaut?" Giannis asks with a wink, and something in Jason's stomach flips. He thinks about Apollo, most beautiful of all the God's and tries not to blush.

Giannis serves them lunch, and they sit with George and the others on the island, in the shade of a few palms. They eat fresh caught mussels and clams, with salad of tomatoes and cucumber and olives. Fresh cheese with honey, and rice and vegetables wrapped in vine leaves. Jason feels like he's living in a dream, grins up at Bruce and smiles shyly at Giannis as they clink their glasses and say "Yamas!".

As the evening wanes, Giannis tries to teach Jason a few words of Greek.

"Efcharisto," The words roll off Giannis' tongue and Jason finds himself staring at the older boy's mouth.

"Eff-ha-rist-oh" Jason repeats, and Giannis laughs and says it's close enough.

That night Jason goes to bed giddy and breathless and dreams of Apollo.

The first time Jason realises he loves someone, truly loves them, other than his Mom that is, he's twelve. Just.

He and Bruce have been sailing for a week or so now, island hoping across the Aegean and the Cyclades. The sea breeze is just enough to keep away the mid-August heat and Jason is sure there isn't a more beautiful part of the world to be found.

Bruce has been promising something special for Jason's birthday. He's spent a lot of time on a ridiculous satellite phone (because there are zero bars in the middle of the sea) trying to sort whatever it is out. If he thinks too much about it, Jason's stomach flips with excitement, because what could possibly top all of this? Bruce is ridiculously rich, and just plain ridiculous, so it's probably a helicopter up to Mount Olympus or something totally crazy, which to be fair, would be beyond cool.

But when the night before his birthday Bruce comes to him looking forlorn, Jason is worried.

"I'm sorry Jay," Bruce says, and it looks like he's in physical pain for how sorry he is. "I really wanted to do something special for your birthday but it isn't going to work out."

"That's okay," Jason says, but before he can continue Bruce speaks again and says,

"I wanted to take you to Themyscira, and Diana thought she could get you in, but Hippolyta said no."

For the briefest of moments, Jason thinks he might be disappointed, but instead there's a rush in his chest and he laughs, head back and heart full. "Bruce, you big boob!" He says, shoving Bruce's arm. "Men aren't allowed on Themyscira."

Bruce slips his arm around Jason and pulls him in close for a hug. "Yeah, but you're just a little man, not a whole one. I thought they might make an exception."

"It would have been cool," Jason muses, from where his face is squashed against Bruce's chest. "But then I couldn't have spent my birthday with you."

Bruce makes a noise in his throat and hugs Jason a little tighter.

"Love you, B." Jason says, and it's the first time he's ever said it to anyone that wasn't his Mom.

Bruce grunts again, and hugs Jason even tighter. "Happy birthday, lad." He mumbles.

The air is warm, and the catamaran bobs lightly in the water. Waves lap at the hull and Jason grins.

He and Bruce sit and watch the stars together.

#batfam #jason todd #spbfic #batfam fic #batfic #batfamily #bruce wayne #batman #sorry for my atrocious greek

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imjustabeanie · 2 months ago

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Matchup exchange

For @walleeli

As you know I hesitated between 3 characters. More precisely, Feixiao, Argenti and Mydei! In the end I picked Feixiao because…fighter x poet ah yes a good ol trope.

Your meeting was a pure coincidence. She was sparring/fighting while you were sitting nearby. If her weapon didn’t accidentally fly your way and land at your feet you two wouldv’e never met. She was very apologetic and kinda sheepish about what happened. Of course you were startled for obvious reasons. Feixiao took a page from Jiaoqiu diplomatic book and invited you to eat as an apology. Feixiao is naturally easy going. I can see her being curious about what you wrote/were reading. She’d get involved in the conversation and make you feel at ease. Next thing you know you two are rambling into the night. Who knew you two had so many musics in common?

Now let’s be for real. I think Feixiao liked the idea of having a girl friend (the girlfriend coming next hehe) who isn’t into her whole fighting world. Makes her discover a new part of herself you know? She might be a good strategist who read many books about the subject, she still enjoys anything you recommend her. I think she’d find books about womanhood to be empowering. You know Feixiao is affected when you notice her doing things that are considered more feminime? I don’t know how to say it properly…I mean girl is built like Aphrodite (no curse) and takes care of her body very well so it’ll mostly be in the aura (why do I imagine her sending you a picture of ice cream with the caption girl dinner?) ANYWAYS! As I said she finds your presence refreshing. And while she didn’t notice at first your tendency to put yourself last, she always includes you in conversations and takes your opinion into consideration. She’s good at guessing when you don’t really wanna do something and is just going with the flow. Feixiao definitely fits into your likes of being confident and self-assured, that’s why you feel at ease with her. She doesn’t take advantage of you and instead encourages you to make your voice be heard more. This applies in friendship and relationship.

Feixiao realized she loved you after a sleepover. You had fallen asleep first. She had agreed to take you camping to a niche spot she loves as in her words, the stars seem to shine the brightest there. Feixiao didn’t realize how much of a playful and teasing person you could be till you opened up. That’s when she realized you had many layers and each one makes her feel fuzzier than the last. Feixiao decided here and then that this cake is worth eating with all its different layers (this sounded way better in my head)

Fox lady way of courting you is something…peculiar. She gets more protective. If she feels like you’re not comfortable and just going with it to not be the odd one she’ll object and sway the subject to something better. She also gives you pep talks about how unique you are, always hyping you up but not realizing that you’re falling for her and not understanding the mixed signals. She also presents you to a lot of her friends who all realize there’s a spark. I mean, Moze once found her playing one of your visual novels/dating sims to try and understand why X Y Z is your favorite. Despite all these signs you found yourself overthinking, believing she was just being friendly. It’s normal for you to spiral in this fog…but thankfully she’s here to lighten the way. One morning, Feixiao knocked on your door after noticing you were feeling down the past days. She brought your favorite snacks and refused to go away. Seeing you like that broke her heart and loosened her tongue.

“Hey, who did this to you? Did you burn out again? I told you to take care of yourself…I can’t bear to see something so precious to me spiral this way…What? Yes I said you’re precious because you are to me. You’re a breath of fresh air, the light at the end of my tunnel, the reason why I feel like getting attached again. Not that I had much of a choice because the battle against my feelings for you is one I surrendered to and just plunged into. Would you allow me to lend you the strength? I promise that as long as I’m standing, you can do whatever you want. I’ll back you up and help you flourish”

Yes this is how she confessed. And you two ended up playing games and talking the whole day. But by the next morning everyone knew of your relationship (in her close circle) because she bragged about it. Feixiao is like that for real.

Now as you noticed, she’s extremely protective. She notices the way you suppress your emotions, the way you overextend yourself, and she refuses to let you carry everything alone. If she sees someone dismissing your needs, she will speak up for you, even if she knows you can do it yourself. She’d like for you to stand up more but accepts you how you are. Plus she feels more like your personal knight in shining armor. Speaking of how you are…Feixiao will end up opening up about her past and origins. But she knows it’s difficult to fully open up and understand oneself. Trust is fragile but she’s willing to wait for you. Everyone has their secret garden, just like she has so expect her to be understanding. The only times she’ll be pushy is if she feels like you’re hurting yourself in the process. Even then she’ll try to give subtle advices before addressing it. Besides that she’s respectful of your need for space even if at the end of the day she just can’t wait but to pounce on you for cuddles. Yes Feixiao loves pda, fight me about it. The bad thing with it is that at first she didn’t notice how you tensed when she wrapped an arm around your shoulder. The good thing is once you got comfy, it was heaven for you.

Now onto something more positive… This woman lives to fluster you. She leans in close when teasing, casually rests her arm around your shoulders, and acts like it’s no big deal. She loves seeing you squirm, but the moment you turn the tables and tease her back? Oh, she’s delighted. It’s very rare for you to catch her off guard and make her blush so good luck. Sly as a fox as we say. Advice? Use the fact that she’s a hopeless romantic in denial. Feixiao never realized how soft she could be until she met you. One day, she found herself holding onto a scarf you left at her place, just breathing in your scent, and she was happy. Scarf means clothes. You two have a similar style but she has to wear more formal fits. You can fully expect her to steal your oversized shirts. She likes gifting you clothes, like good jeans cuz they’re hard to come across. But accessories are the things she gifts you the most as she knows you like to fidget with them. Bonus? She can also fidget with them while cuddling (her cuddles are also a way to get you to sleep more).

Feixiao loves spontaneous dates. She travels often and while she’d love for you to travel with her, she’d respect your wishes if you’re against it or refuses to take you with her if it’s too dangerous. That’s why she insists on at least one video call per day when she’s away. Don’t tell her but she sometimes wishes to ask you to sleep with the camera on so she can feel like she’s sleeping with you…give her a plushie and you’ll always see it in her luggage. One of the reasons is that it brings Feixiao comfort that you are safe and it helps ground her after a nightmare. Her travels are also the reason why she picked up gaming. After discovering your love for visual novels/dating sims, she insists on playing them together. She voices all the characters dramatically, but if there’s a love interest you’re simping over, she’ll pretend to be jealous just to make you laugh. Once Feixiao is back home, she always celebrate with a fancy homemade dinner followed by a few days in a cabin/camping so you two can stargaze together. She loves that you boulder despite your fear of heights. She challenges you to races, but if she senses you hesitating at the top, she reaches out, grinning to reassure you. She also marks down every library she wants you to visit as library dates became your thing. Like a mini book club with your lover.

To finish this, I can say that Feixiao is a lover that challenges you, protects you, and loves you in ways you never knew you needed. She’s the fighter who teaches you strength isn’t about endurance, it’s about knowing when to let someone stand beside you. And for you? She’d stand forever.

#matchups #match ups #honkai star rail #feixiao #hsr x reader #feixiao x reader

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television-overload · 9 months ago

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fate is the handspike

(an X-Files ficlet)

[Read on AO3]

Summary:

Starting on February 23, 1964, Teena Mulder begins to worry about her young son. At first, she thinks maybe he's wishing for a little sister, a wish that will be granted very soon. But he insists the little girl he talks to is called Dana, and she's too little to play, but she likes when he reads his books to her.

(fic below the cut)

At first, Teena thinks it's cute.

"She's just a baby, mommy, she can't play yet," he'd say.

"Oh, is that right?" she'd reply, indulging him in his childish fantasies. Perhaps this was his way of asking for a sister. The other moms in the neighborhood often urged her to give Fox a sibling, citing a child's need for company and social engagement, but Fox had always seemed so happy to play alone. She's not on the best of terms with her husband at the moment, either, which complicates things.

But then there's times when she sees Fox on the floor, legs splayed out before him as he recites his favorite picture books to his imaginary friend, and she wonders if she ought to be worried. Just a little.

Dr. Seuss, Curious George, Clifford the Big Red Dog... The boy has a photographic memory. Though he's too young to properly read, he has a grasp on the basic plots and recounts them in great detail, turning the pages as he goes.

"This one is called 'Where the Wild Things Are,' Dana," he says, because his friend's name—he insists—is Dana. He turns the book in his hand and shows the colorful illustration on the cover to a patch of carpet on the living room floor. "Don't worry, it's not scary," he assures her. Her. It. Whatever it is he's spent his days talking to since late February.

When he tells the story, he uses his own name, instead of 'Max.' That's how she'd always read it to him, and that's the only way he knows.

"And Fox told the monsters to be still!" he narrates with enthusiasm. "He used a magic trick and looked right in their BIG yellow eyes, and they were all scared. They said Fox is the most wild thing of all, and they made him king!"

ii.

There was one night when she'd woken to find Fox standing in the corner of his room, speaking softly to the wall.

"Shh, it's okay, Dana," he soothed in his little voice. "Here, I'll sing you a song. Twinkle twinkle little star...."

She never tells Bill what she's seen. He's always too busy to notice himself. But others know.

"He's quite an imaginative young fellow," Spender notes, taking a draw from his cigarette as Fox rolls around in the grass outside the house in Quonochontaug. Since "Dana" learned to crawl, he's been even more preoccupied than usual. He shows her all his toys, tells her the names of all his action figures. He announces to his mother one day that he's going to teach Dana how to walk. That she can only stand on her own for a little bit right now, but she doesn't cry anymore when she falls down.

Bill, if he ever catches wind of this, must think he's talking about one of the other kids from Teena's ladies' group. But there's no "Dana" in this neighborhood. Not on the Vineyard, either. She's checked.

iii.

The day she finds out she's pregnant, a part of her wonders. Though her knowledge of her husband's work is small, she knows enough to gather that things she might have thought impossible, could in fact be possible. Perhaps her son had been having visions of his baby sister, long before she was even conceived. Maybe it had simply been a sign that he would one day be a big brother. Soon.

She'd long since dispelled thoughts of ghosts and hauntings and exorcisms.

He tells Dana all about the baby in mommy's tummy. He giggles and makes silly faces, pausing in between sentences, which she gathers must mean his friend has developed the ability to speak.

"Mommy, she said my name! That's right! Fox! Fox!"

iv.

When Samantha is born, "Dana" seems to disappear overnight. This, at least, supports her theory that he had simply been preparing himself for a new sibling, and after a few years, she's completely dismissed the issue. Fox shows no other signs of strange or unusual behavior. He is nothing but a doting big brother, who occasionally gets annoyed by his freckle-faced kid sister, as any brother is wont to do. He reads to her, plays games with her, watches the television with her. They're two peas in a pod, and not once does the name "Dana" escape his lips. She is all but forgotten.

Until he's twelve years old. Samantha is gone, and Teena lacks the patience to deal with his questioning.

"Mom? Does the name 'Dana' mean anything to you?" he asks.

"What? Of course not, Fox, why would you ask such a thing?"

He looks down at his feet, shoulders slumping. "No reason. Forget I asked."

When Fox lays awake at night, the bedroom next to his now dull and empty, he thinks he can hear a voice. It isn't Samantha's—though he'd thought so at first.

"By heaven, man," she reads, "we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea!"

What does this girl know about fate? What does she know of this upside-down world?

"Read the next chapter, Dana!" he hears another girl's voice speak. The words are faint—muffled—like he's underwater. But her voice is clear.

He falls asleep, like most nights, listening to the tales of Ahab and Starbuck, and a great white whale.

-.-.-

Tag List ♡: @today-in-fic @agent-troi @baronessblixen @captainsolocide @cutemothman @deathsbestgirl @edierone @enigmaticxbee @figureofdismay @frogsmulder @hippocampouts @invidiosa @numinousmysteries @randomfoggytiger @skelavender @teenie-xf @thursdayinspace

#hi i have no idea what this is but *hands it to you on a silver platter*#i have a ton of wips that have had me stumped #but this managed to actually sort of get written #not my usual style i fear so hopefully it's okay lol #this is one of the ones i almost sent to someone else as a prompt and then sighed in annoyance and realized i had to write it #txf #x files #fox mulder #dana scully #xf fanfic #my fanfiction

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faustianfascination · 6 months ago

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the night of the lonely beast

pairing: Gilbert Von Obsidian x fem!OC fandom: Ikemen Prince

Gilbert is invited to the wedding of Chevalier & Emma as a sign of diplomatic harmony, however seeing the woman he'd longed for marry his old friend/adversary stirs up a deep loneliness in the conquering beast. Until a brave little fox decides to tempt a tiger. words: 5213 Minors DNI tags/warnings: penetrative sex (vaginal), first time, loss of virginity, rough sex, biting, gilbert being gilbert

many thanks for @scummy-writes & @rjthirsty for being a Gil sounding board and helping me get back into the writing groove

The hypocrisy of it all was farcical, the same nobles who gossiped about the bride's unsuitable breeding for the position of Queen now bowed politely and pulled on their finest fake smiles to wish the happy couple happiness in their marriage; all while plotting how they would slip their daughters into Chevalier's bed. The discussions on how they could use their positions as the Queen's new ladies-in-waiting to charm the King made Gilbert want to throw up, but he like every noble here was hiding behind a mask of faux joy because that is how this game is played. The invite to the wedding had been a surprise after the trip to Obsidian, however it was a smart diplomatic move, showing a picture of international harmony after finally settling the treaty and there was a small part of Gilbert that looked at Emma and Chevalier wrapped in love and joy that made the last remaining shred of goodwill towards his old fried happy for him.

However, he was not a good man and even that little shred of selfless joy was being drowned out by a more jealous, lonely beast rising up in his chest. He didn't care much for alcohol beyond warming his body but tonight he indulged a little, the burn of the Bentonite booze drowning out the subtle ache in his chest. Like hell he was going to drown his sorrows in that obnoxiously sweet rose infused nonsense, especially now in a hall filled with fake sweetness. Even with international relations thawing, he was still treated with open suspicion and hostility, which was fair he didn't mind the honesty but what was most galling was the nobles who failed to hide their disdain for him fully while trying to get things from him, be it trade deals or investment. But still like flies swarming to a rats carcass they buzzed around him and he was struggling to fight back the urge to reveal the gun in his cane and end the conversations once and for all. Although even he knew that starting a massacre at a wedding reception was a bit much, even for him. Even if a piece of him wanted to use the distraction to capture the little rabbit and steal her away, seeing that pure white dress dyed with blood and the sin of choosing this life.

The elegant music began to fill the room, causing the flies to buzz away to the edges of the dance floor giving him some space as he drew back to the shadowed edges. At the centre, the bride and groom took to the floor alone, the stars of this pantomime as they swept gracefully together as though made for each other. The thought made something deep in his chest twinge, like watching a long held dream crumble in front of him. But wasn't that exactly what she was? The dream, the purehearted girl so clean and bright that no amount of filth could taint, someone who he poured all his deepest wishes into as if to prove his foolish younger self right. But, she wasn't a girl, she was a woman, a very beautiful woman; still pure of heart and soul but different from his imaginings and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. He let his eyes drift from the couple, watching the faces of the other princes lit with happiness at the harmonious scene but he caught it even if it was faint. In Nokto and Clavis' eyes, a touch of melancholy that came from watching the women you desired ride off into the sunset with someone who wasn't you. Clavis' inclusion in this lonely little club was not surprising, a man driven by his inferiority to his brother would of course desire the charming rabbit who made him human, but Nokto? The man who had slept with most of the court was a surprise, then again perhaps the most beautiful heart in the kingdom is what the philanderer needed to capture his attention because she would always be out of his reach. Gilbert's cheeks hurt with the effort of forcing an appropriate face and there was an unpleasant feeling in his throat that made him look anywhere but the happy scene. Very few people were bold enough to meet his gaze, so there was a small feeling of shock when his eyes caught another pair in the sea of people gazing directly at him, his surprise intensifying as when his eyes met theirs they did not look away or flash with fear. Instead they held his gaze, without a trace of fear. Only bright undisguised interest, he realised that he was gazing into the eyes of a young woman who seemed to be the only other one in the room not enraptured by the sight of the couple, it was strange and tugged at some long forgotten feeling. With that observation Gilbert stealthily edged his way out of the room away from the suffocating love story in front of him.

The air in the rose gardens was refreshing, enough to wash away the buzz of the alcohol as he strode deeper into the night. The palace was like a blinding candle in comparison to the quiet and dark gardens further from the celebration. The peace was a double edged sword, it gave him some breathing room but further made the pangs of loneliness more apparent, with nothing but the moonlight and roses to keep him company as he came to a stop and lent wearily on his cane; he wasn't one to reminisce fondly but the alcohol and the loss of the little rabbit seemed to be breaking down the walls he had built to protect himself. He would never have this, he intended to be the last of his line and with his health he didn't see the point of marrying nor did he want to be bound by the strings of nobility, using their daughter and his children to their advantage. Just as he and his mother had been used. It wasn't until after his mother died he realised the true extent of the horrors she suffered at his father's hands, once she was gone his father took a string of mistresses. Some arrogant on the power of being in the Emperor's bed, but quickly killed and thrown away especially if they became pregnant.

Bastards were frowned upon in Obsidian, the Emperor was deeply offended by their existence so he'd never allow a pregnant mistress to live. Despite this, the great houses of Obsidian were happy to throw their daughters into such a fate for just a sliver of power. One always stood out in his mind, she was the one mistress Gilbert remembered vividly. Mostly because she was obscenely young and painfully kind to him never trying to use her position only, seeming to want to survive long enough to escape the castle walls. Nausea swelled in his gut when he remembered the night he saw her limping out of his father's room, battered and bleeding, stifling sobs in the darkened corridor. The moment she noticed him adopting a practised mask of propriety. The wince in her curtsy making it all the more absurd. Not long after she was taken out on a hunting trip with the Emperor, only to be the intended prey after it was discovered she was pregnant, as if his father's actions had nothing to do with her state. The first girl was sneaked into his room was when he was 14, she was shaking with fear while trying to seduce him like a child being made to play at adult games. He sent her away quickly but there began a steady stream of girls sent to him as brood mares when his position as successor was more secure, it was disgusting. It also hurt him, to see these girls sent to him, scared to be in his presence but still trying to get pregnant by him like a prize stallion. As he tamed the court the visits dwindled and eventually ended but it still was an unpleasant memory.

His dark memories faded back into the shadows of his mind as he felt he was no longer alone, delicate footfalls coming up cautiously behind him. Someone was certainly feeling brave tonight. Even with the alcohol in his system his senses were still sharp and he decided to lay a trap for this foolish visitor. The ruffle of fabric floating over grass confirmed what he already suspected; the owner of those eyes had followed him out here. The movements slowed coming to a halt a little away from him, seems they at least had some survival instinct. Whoever it was drew their breath about to make their greeting as he turned and with reflexive ease caught the underside of their chin with the tip of the cane

"it's rude to follow people" he smiled down at the woman in front of him, caught mid curtsy her back braced like a swan about to take flight from a river; elegant and enticing in equal measure.

"please forgive my insolence your imperial highness" despite her situation she held almost unnaturally still, looking him straight in the eye again. There was something in that utter fearlessness Gilbert liked, he observed her as she remain at the tip of his cane and took closer notice of those eyes, a pleasing lilac that felt almost otherworldly in their brightness. They never wavered under his gaze, a defiance there that he rarely encountered. He lowered his cane and a subtle nod allowed her to stand again, appraising her as she straightened. It wasn't that Gilbert didn't feel lust, he could appreciate beauty it simply wasn't something he had the luxury of entertaining but tonight even that seemed to fall by the wayside as his eyes took in her form, slight curves hidden under the layers of fabric of her mossy coloured gown that was simpler yet more elegant than many of the others he had seen that night. Without bows and jewels to cover her natural beauty she seemed to shine brighter, the low cut of the bodice allowing him a glimpse of her breasts framed by sharp collar bones barely hidden under the lacy cloak, all her features had a sharpness from her cheekbones to the rich dark of her hair, she was hard to look away from. As his eyes scanned her again, a single silver pendant drew him back to her chest as it rested between her breasts. She seemed more delicate than Emma in some ways with less pronounced curves but her angular beauty more intense, more aggressive than the softness of the rabbit. Foxlike almost. Where the little rabbit was more bashful, she was more brazen shown by the way she approached him and now held herself with a boldness that made something in him burn. It was an impulse but he offered his arm to his guest and was more than a little surprised that she accepted it, this beauty allowing his beast close, close enough the feel the warmth radiating from her body. They walked deeper into the gardens the sound of their steps muffled by the grass, only the odd rustle of fabric on bushes interrupting the peace, oddly it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. Gilbert looked over at her again, the urge to bite into the pale flesh of her shoulder more than a little tempting but his thoughts were interrupted by her airy voice

"I suppose I should tell you my reason for seeking you out, as enjoyable as this walk is" she began unprompted. She wasn't trying to hide her request in pleasantries and got straight to the point, another mark in her favour. Pulling them both to a halt as she positioned her body too look directly at him "my intentions are hardly pure so there is no point to beat around the bush. I'd like to spend the night with you, your Imperial Highness"

How bold indeed, so bold it made him chuckle.

"brazen little fox aren't you" Gilbert said "you realise I'm not a good man, hardly one a maiden like you should be provoking" his gloved hands coming to brush her cheek, his fingers grazing down her jaw until they rested upon the pulse point of her neck. The beat was calmer than he expected so he wrapped his hand around her neck, not enough to hurt but warn her of the consequences of her recklessness. Even with this, she held her ground, never wavering in her resolve which made the little heat in his body begin to pool between his thighs.

"I'm perfectly aware of your reputation you Imperial Highness. I have more respect for those that wear their fangs openly rather than distracting you with sweet lies while they stab you in the back. It's a refreshing change" she countered, Gil felt a familiar exhaustion with the duplicity of nobility the shared displeasure piqued his curiosity, although he was getting weary of the burden of his title.

"Gil, since you're bold enough to make this request I'll consider you a friend. And my friends call me Gil" he smiled, hand still around her neck. It wouldn't take much to crush the air from her. "Since we're friends, why not tell me your name and why exactly you're propositioning me so boldly"

"Waverley Burgundy, and well Gil, reason is simple you're a handsome man and I want to enjoy my first time with a handsome man of my choosing before I'm sent off to be some old lout's plaything. Also, misery loves company" she said with pointed conviction, and Gilbert could tell that no word of it was a lie. The smile he wore began to truly reach his eyes, and even now she didn't shy away from him. His nickname fell from her lips so easily, something the little rabbit was unable to do. He drew a little closer, their bodies creating more points of contact, her warmth inviting him further into this temptation.

"There are plenty men in that ballroom that you could play with, far less dangerous. Perhaps you should even save yourself for that husband of yours, or do the nobility of Rhodolite not place much value in such things" he brought his lips to her ear, enjoying the intimacy more than he cared to admit. Filling his nostrils with her scent clouded his mind enough to give him respite from the little rabbit's ghost in his heart. Even now though she still surprised him, a sharp laugh filling the space between them

"You're the man I found most handsome, and actually he paid extra for my virtue but would you want to endure the first touch being that of a gout laden man, old enough to be your grandfather flopping around on top of you" the bitterness cutting into her voice. With that he pulled back, letting his hand drop from her neck and appraised her again. Perhaps she would work as a distraction from his own miserable fate, even if just for a night they could put off the inevitable for a little while. This wasn't the conquering beast thinking, simply Gilbert the man and the beast that was made in lust but he needed to give her an out; himself an excuse to not be reckless despite the hardness growing in his trousers begging him to give in.

The silence hung in the air and she seemed to lose a little of that confidence "although, if you're not interested I shall not push it and leave you in peace Gil" it was the way her voice wrapped around his name again that broke his resolve, his lack of an answer seeming to lure her into the thought he was rejecting her. No, she was too lovely a prey to let go, so as she began to pull away he grabbed her. Her body came crashing into his, his arms winding around her waist and teeth finding her shoulder before she could escape him. Her skin tasted lovely, the smell of sage and pomegranate filling his nose as his teeth bit hard into her flesh through the lace of her cloak the sharp texture of taut lace adding to the sensation of her flesh. The moan she let out was dangerously erotic as he sucked on the mark, ensuring it would blaze brightly, showing everyone she was his prey now. One hand came to hold the back of her neck, making her stay and look at him as he released her neck from his jaws "I never said you could leave" was all he got out before she kissed him. Her lips claiming his in an adorable act of faux control. It didn't take long to invade her pretty mouth with his tongue, her heat filling him more and more as he felt her arms come around his neck and pull him closer.

It took Gilbert's full resolve not to throw her to the ground of the rose gardens but he was a gentleman, she had sought him out to enjoy her first time and he would do her the courtesy of at least giving her a bed because he knew he couldn't promise to be gentle. Gil wasn't a virgin per say, the things he and Roderick had done over the years seeing to that, but it was the first time he'd taken a woman to his bed and he couldn't help but feel a little nervous at his lack of experience. He probably couldn't be as rough with her as he was with Roderick…yet.

He had grabbed her after the kiss and pulled her towards his room as quickly as he could manage without running or aggravating his lungs. Each stride reminding him of how uncomfortable restrictive formal wear was with an erection but she kept pace with him with equal enthusiasm. There was something in that which made part of him feel a little happy, to have someone simply want him without conditions was rare, to have a woman actively seek him out and not cower in his presence made him feel human for once not a walking terror. In a quiet place buried deep in his soul it reminded him of when he was a child and simply dreamed of love before the world shattered those hopes, it was the same feeling the rabbit brought him, but this was different.

Instead of melancholy imaginings alone in his room was a warm lively body writhing under him as he pressed her into the bed, kissing and biting every bit of flesh he could touch arousing a symphony breathy moans, whimpers and pretty calls of his name. There was even a giggle when he brushed his fingers over a spot on her neck that was particularly ticklish, kissing her into submission when she tried to apologise. Waverley didn't just lay there, her lips capturing his, her teeth biting his lips, their bodies twined and jostled for dominance and he eventually relented and pulled her atop him, enjoying the sensation of her body draping over his. Feeling her hands slipping between his clothes seemingly as desperate to touch him as he was her stoked his desire further, it was intoxicating to want and be wanted in return. He took the opportunity to loosen the lacing on her dress until it started to slip down her slowly revealing her breasts in their full glory. She brought herself to straddle him grinding over his crotch enough to make his hips buck a little, he let his hands squeeze and play with her breasts, teasing and pinching her nipples through his gloves but he wanted to feel her fully. Gil sat up and grabbed hold of her face again to make her look at him, her face flushed and confused as he stopped touching her.

"Open your mouth" he commanded, slipping the tip of his gloved finger between her lips only for her to start sucking gently which made him chuckle, he would ensure to reward such diligent action.

"how lewd, jumping straight to obscenity. Very entertaining but not what I wanted. Bite the tip" as he issued his command he saw her realise what his intention was and she glowed brighter red. It was thoroughly adorable watching the gap between her desires and experience. She bit down on the glove tip of each finger to loosen them, and he finally freed his hand of one glove. Too impatient to play that game again he pulled off the other himself, it gave her the chance to slip out of his lap but as he motioned to grab her she held his chin.

"to remove my dress" she said into his lips, kissing him while working the fabric off before taking her place back in his lap freed of the layers of silk and satin. It didn't take long before she was back under him, her hands working his clothes off as quickly and haphazardly with varying success. His various belts ended up providing more of a challenge than either of them anticipated and seeing her struggling under him to undo them all was an amusing sight.

"having trouble are we?" he smirked. He was being cute in the annoying way which made her huff and lay back with a sweet little pout

"who needs so many damn belts" she grumbled covering her chest with her arms and looking away from him as he removed his garments. Her eyes darted to his body as he stripped, the lust blatant but her nerves getting the better of her. He was enjoying the show and when he finally dropped his trousers she stopped hiding her gaze, her mouth making a cute little 'o' as she took him in. There was a moment of still in the darkened room as Gil enjoyed the sight of the naked beauty on his bed and she raked her eyes over him. Then he pounced on her again and started adorning her body with bites, from her chest to her hips. The unfamiliar sensation of skin on skin contact made him feel like he would burn alive; he savoured the taste of skin, especially the skin of her breasts, enjoying the feeling of sucking and biting her nipples her body reacting so honestly to him. His other hand ran down her waist to the valley between her legs and he nearly moaned at how wet she was, but she needed more to make this truly pleasurable and focused his ministrations on her bud, twisting and rubbing it between his fingers.

Gilbert had to catch his breath at the feeling of her hand around his cock, working him like he was working her. The firm grip and her thumb swirling around the tip ruining him more than he'd like to admit. Their bodies rutted together, nails cut into Gilbert's back as she panted his name, his own pants muffled by keeping his teeth busy on her chest. His patience was wearing thin though so he slowly slid a finger inside her, causing her to still and her head to roll back. Her cunt felt warm and gripped his finger in a way that made his cock throb, so much so he pulled her hand away so because it was all getting too much. Soon three fingers and his thumb were pushing her body further into pleasure, he felt her flutter and tense under him, arching as she climaxed on his fingers yelling his name with abandon. The flood of her left a wet patch on the sheet, he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked each digit as she gazed as if mesmerised by him. She was sweet on his tongue, the only sweet thing he'd enjoyed tonight.

She lay beneath him, her body trembling and sensitive for him and it was a sight that crated a warmth deep in the darkness of his heart. His prey there so open and vulnerable with a beast like him, it felt satisfying for a conqueror to be welcomed openly. Her eyes always met his, it was something even the little rabbit couldn't consistently manage.

"Gil" her voice cut through his reverie, a flush of fear flashing in her eyes, but not of him. Even he knew that the pain of the first time was hammered into women before they were sent to be wedded and bedded and there was little he could do to sooth her fully. Only do his best to make it as comfortable as possible, so he caressed her face again and then opened her legs to finally enjoy her fully, every inch of her was beautiful but her flushed and twitching cunt was the most bewitching, evidence of how much she wanted him. He kept a strong grip on her hips, perhaps the pressure of his fingers a distraction as he lined up to finally sink into her. He ran the tip of his cock along her wet folds, making him bite his lip as he found her entrance. He wouldn't be mean but there was no point dragging it out so he started pushing in, the sight of his cock sliding into her was perhaps the most divine thing he'd ever seen. It was overwhelming, tightness squeezing him with warmth, her silk walls fluttering and clenching around his cock better than the way it felt on his fingers. Gil had the realisation that perhaps he wasn't going to last as long as he wanted but it's not like this would be the only round of the night. If he was alone he'd end up with visions of the little rabbit being ravished on her wedding night would creep into his mind and that may potentially drive him to destroy this poxy little country once and for all.

Her breathing became faster, eyes closing as tears leaked out and her hands balled the sheets. Her legs crushed against his waist and he could feel the tension in her hips as she clenched him so tight it bordered painful. He rubbed reassuring circles on her hips, leaning forward to kiss and nibble her neck to distract and slowly he sheaved himself inside her, savouring the feeling of it, from the crushing pressure on his dick to the way his balls rested against her. They lay still, breathing and kissing while she adjusted to him, it was a small mercy he could offer. The moment felt endless, both wonderful and hellish as he waited and finally she wrapped her arms around his shoulder and kissed him again. He took it as a cue to finally move, starting gentle but soon building to a rougher harsher rhythm. The cute pain of her nails clawing his back was fun, Gil wondered how hard he'd need to fuck her to make her draw blood. Her legs wrapped around him as he pounded her into the mattress making the bed creak and squeak as she kissed his neck and shoulders, clawed his back and all the sensations he was feeling were building into something he couldn't describe. The rational part of his mind shutting off and only the most primal beast remaining, it was almost blissful if the urge to pour his seed into her over and over again until she was completely marked as his wasn't getting harder to resist. It was a risk he couldn't take but how he longed to see his semen overflowing from her pretty cunt, a dark place in his mind wondering how lovely she'd look with a swollen belly and breasts heavy with his heirs but that was a fantasy too far. But, he could feel her orgasm on his cock, it had been delightful on his fingers, he couldn't imagine how much better it would feel now.

Gil sat back on his heels, with Waverley's legs still wrapped around his waist he took in the sight of her trembling and panting on his cock. It was incredible, he could look at this forever. She was even more beautiful like this, hair messily framing her face, her eyes blown with desire and looking at him with earnestness that made something in his chest twist. He couldn't help but look at where they were joined, the scent and feeling of her come was something he wanted to never forget; it also gave him access to that little bud that would drive her to utter ruin and he began relentlessly stimulating it with his fingers. The effect was immediate, she clenched and spasmed around him, her hips bucking and back arching as her body fucked itself on him by instinct. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut as her cunt squeezed his cock and it felt like he was on fire but he wanted to see her face as he ruined her, make her keep looking him in the eyes so he held her face to she had to look at him, slipped this thumb into her mouth. Her eyes watered but she took his unspoken command and did her best to hold his gaze until she couldn't stop her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. With all the stimulation she didn't last long and he was rewarded with feeling her climax on his cock, it was so tight he felt like she'd never let him go, almost pulling him deeper into her body. Her moans of his name had become so loud he was sure it was echoing down the hall. The satisfaction of her making him feel this good and enthusiastically screaming his name in the Rhodolite palace on the little bunny's wedding night just made it all the more fantastic. Gods he was petty wasn't he…

Her body began to relax under him, it wouldn't take much for him to finish now so he went back to his rough pace trying to keep enough of his wits about him not to fill her like he wanted, but to mark her instead. It all happened quickly, he somehow managed to pull himself out of her warmth to paint her with his seed. It may not be quite as satisfying as finishing inside her but this was still a nice sight, her stomach and the underside of her breasts covered in pearly white splashes, they complimented the deep reds of his bites all over her. She was trembling still, but the weariness was evident in her body so Gil set to the task of cleaning her up with a tenderness that even surprised him. If he was Silvio, she'd have been evicted from his bed already but Gil wasn't finished with her yet, and he pulled her under the sheets with him. Her body was even warmer now and he held her close to him, ensuring she knew she wasn't being freed from him.

They never stopped kissing or touching each other until she fell into a light sleep. Gil watched her as she dozed, taking a strand of her dark hair and twisting it around his fingers, inhaling the woody scent while he recovered and began to think of the other positions he intended to make with her as the night deepened.

#gilbert von obsidian #ikepri smut #ikepri gilbert #ikepri emma #emma x chevalier #ikepri chevalier #chevalier michel #ikemen prince

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