#the week of celebratory side burns

[drasticemotions]

happy birthday sam winchester, you may always live rent free in my brain

[zyafics]

HIII!!! I love ur writing sm <3 If you're taking requests, I was wondering if you could do one about a reporter reader who used to date Rafe but they broke up and now she has to interview him??? Set in college if possible! Thank you so much! I hope you're having a good day 🥰

hi baby! yes, i do take requests and i absolutely love this one 🥰 i made reader work for a network company but she's still in college and he plays basketball! (but fair warning, i know absolutely nothing about basketball so if i got the terminologies wrong, look away!!) i hope you enjoy <3 this is angsty as fuck

ALL FOR THE GAME | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Oneshot) | College Basketball Player x Ex!Reporter!Female Reader .ᐟ

Content — college au, athlete/reporter, prior breakup, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort

Word Count — 4.2K

You couldn't believe it.

It's considered lucky. For someone in your position—having received this entry-level job a couple of weeks ago—to have the opportunity to interview an athlete. In fact, many people would call it a great honor.

And it is. Under normal circumstances, you would be more than happy to oblige—elated, even—because people at this stage in your career rarely get such an opening. Especially since you're in college, fully prepared for this internship to be nothing more than grunt work.

Yet, this? This would allow you to advance your career at an expedited rate only offered to nepotism. You should be thrilled, overcome with joy, jumping at your feet and thanking whatever deity you believed in for such a chance.

But you don't.

Because the person to interview is Rafe.

Rafe Cameron, the top prospect of the NBA draft picks.

Rafe Cameron, your ex-boyfriend.

Your boss waits for an answer. He proposed the question a few moments ago, about covering the press conference for the last game of the season. Because of a sick reporter who called out at the last minute, your objective is to build a profile on Rafe Cameron. Since he's the leading prospect, with scouts all over the country looking at him, many people want to know more about the rising all-star who's done nothing but dominate the court.

This proposal, however, was done more out of common courtesy. No one would be stupid enough to say no, and when your boss raises a brow, signifying his manifesting annoyance from your silence and lack of celebratory cheers—you stammer.

"Um, um," you say.

"Um, what?" He prompts. "Will you be doing it or not?"

You shouldn't. There are many reasons why you shouldn't attend Rafe's basketball games. There's resentment because when you step back into that arena, back onto that court, you're reminded of how Rafe picked it over you. There's lingering sadness, residing heavily against the back of your heart, dulled from the passage of time, but not completely forgotten. And lastly, there's anger, because sometimes, all you want to do is scream, cry, and yell at the man who shattered your heart into a billion different pieces.

But that doesn't matter, does it?

Romance has no place in a reporter's life because you're nothing more but a projection for the audience, a vessel for the readers to learn about something else. You don't have feelings; you're a prop. And, certainly, it doesn't matter to your boss, who's only asking you because you're the last choice.

"Well?"

Seconds away from retracting the offer, something in your chest tightens. Logically, you know the choice to make. But your heart doesn't agree. It still hurts, aches, and burns at all of the past memories. It wants nothing more than to bury itself in a hole and pretend that such a critical part of your history does not exist.

But you can't. Life only moves forward. So, all you do is move with it.

"I'll do it."

By the time you arrive at the stadium, all you want to do is run. Anxiety pricks at your spine and your palms grow clammy by your side. Everything inside you is blaring like a warning, cautioning that this is a mistake, that you aren't ready, and that you should turn back.

Despite the badge dangling around your neck, you almost listen. Put your career on hold for a man who hasn't given a single thought about you since the breakup. You can't let him win, and with that reminder, you move with the mob, flocking to their seats.

The atmosphere is charged with exhilaration, and you're reminded of everything before. It's automatic. How easy it is for you to return to old patterns, to follow them, and to find yourself trickling down the steps and towards the courtside seats reserved for family and friends of the team.

Until a hand is placed on your lower back, and a security guard guides you to the press box instead.

It's quieter. The enclosure of the room dulls the energy of the crowd, with a thick sheet of glass separating you from the rest of the people, and reminding you of your purpose.

You take a seat on a cushioned chair, reserved for your network, and look around the place. You're among the most seasoned reporters in their field, chatting with one another, familiarity engulfing the air that somewhat alienates you. They pay you little mind—saved for a curious-yet-judgmental glance at how you wore a jersey compared to their formal suits and pencil skirts. When you follow their line of vision, you realize it wasn't an ordinary merch of the UNC team but Rafe's.

"Fuck," you mumble. You hadn't realized you picked out his jersey; it was left in the back of your closet and you couldn't see yourself attending your college's game without a visual form of support. This probably appears to the rest of the journalists that you're nothing more than a superfan who managed to weasel their way into their network.

It makes your stomach flips with nausea. You want to separate Rafe from you as much as possible, and with a quick run to the bathroom, you change out of the merch and throw it over your tote, straightening out your blouse underneath. When you return, the players are slowly filling out to court.

The visitors' team enters first; UNC follows. You count each player that exits the locker room, watching their expressions as they grin and absorb the energy of their home stadium, as they walk down the length of the bench, as they talk among themselves and share playful jests and banter. You didn't even know you were holding your breath until Rafe stepped out last, to the loudest cheer of the crowd, with a solemn look on his face.

You watch as Rafe searches the stands. Not in the same manner as his teammates, where they're acknowledging fans, or sending flirtatious winks to pretty girls sitting front row. It's different— with purpose. He's searching for something—someone—and your heart clenches in your chest at the thought of Rafe having found your replacement.

But it's been months, hasn't it? It should be more than fair game for him to date whatever he wants. You can still act professionally with this developing news, but it's striking down at your armor.

However, whoever he's looking for, he doesn't find. Rafe goes to huddle with the rest of his team as their Coach gives a final motivational speech before releasing them.

The game starts with a tip-off, and once the referee throws the ball in the air, Rafe takes it into his possession.

He sprints across the court, slicing through the opponent players, and scoring points on the board. Rafe is powerful, knowing exactly when to exchange his hands and pass to his teammates, where exactly to cut through, and when to commit to a play. Commentary heard from the built-in speakers can attest to it, as their primary focus is on how Rafe is taking the last game of the season by storm.

But, while everyone's eyes are glued to the game, as much as you try not to, you can't do anything but stare at Rafe.

He's just as incredible as he was when you were dating him; if not, more. In some way, it makes your heart tighten, knowing that this validates his reason for the breakup. You just wish he felt some semblance of the pain you feel. But as much as you hate it, you're also proud. Rafe has come so far, and trained so hard, to make it to where he is. If he secures a win for the last game, it will be nothing but a guaranteed track to the NBA and luxuries and fame ahead.

All without you.

By the time the game ended, Rafe scored the last shot in a close game, delivering the end of the conference with a secured UNC victory. Everyone in the press box stands from their seats, heading to the media room where they'll be meeting a panel of UNC athletes for questions.

Yet, you linger. You step up to the glass, watching as the erupted cheers of the audience surround the entire stadium, much to the glee of the UNC team, while Rafe stands in the middle of the court for a few seconds, soaking everything in. His eyes pan across the bleachers again, in search for something, before his expression falls and he retreats to the locker room.

When you enter the room of journalists, you slip into a seat. It'll be a while before the players come shuffling in, and you take each second to rehearse and calm your nerves. In one hand, is a tape recorder, while the other is a notepad of the written questions you plan to ask.

UNC's Publicist steps out first to provide an official statement and give a brief overview of the conduct of this press conference. She'll be the moderator, giving everyone enough time to ask all of their questions, and she'll be selecting the networks to her own accord. After everyone comes to the general consensus, the door opens and the Coach steps out with his players.

You watch with bated breath as Rafe is the last to enter, freshly showered and changed into grey sweatpants with a matching UNC zip-up jacket. His headphones dangles around his neck, while his expression exudes nothing but boredom and reluctance. Rafe has always hated interviews, especially post-games, during your relationship. At least that's the one thing that hasn't changed.

You drop your gaze to your lap, swallowing hard as you calm your racing heartbeat. It's been months, yet you still feel the same emotions coursing through you as if no time has passed—longing, hurt, sadness. You whisper positive affirmations, reminding yourself that it's just a job, and that'll be short and simple. You won't even have to speak to Rafe, because your boss may have said to find out more about Rafe Cameron for your profile, nowhere did he say you have to ask him specifically.

When Rafe sits on his chair, he lazily scans the room, a habit of his to pass the time, before he spots you among the crowd. In the third row, second seat; your favorite choice to sit. You don't see it, but a corner smile lifts to his face, demeanor changing, and he straightens up in his seat.

Throughout the conference, the publicist hands the microphone off to whoever she selects. They often direct their questions at Rafe, to which he gives monosyllabic and deadpanned answers. Then, when they try to seek more clarification, Rafe gives them nothing, much to their grimness.

You keep your head low, writing down notes, and drawing doodles on the edge of your notepad. Anything to avoid making accidental eye contact with Rafe. But, regardless, you feel him. The heat of his stare remains on you the entire time, especially when the publicist approach you and hands you the microphone.

It’s time.

With trembling hands, you stand from your seat. You turn your attention to the front of the panel, introducing yourself, your network, and your job. Smiles spread across Rafe's teammates as they recognize you, and you offer a polite one of your own.

Beginning at the furthest player at the end of the table, you ask, "How would you describe Mr. Cameron as a teammate?"

He grins as if he was prepared for this. "Rafe's an incredible teammate and captain. He's a capable leader, who's strong on the court, but also strong on having his teammates' back. You saw it back there—" That earns a small laugh from the reporters. "But, yeah. Rafe's one of my favorite teammates, if I'm being honest."

You tilt your head at that conclusion, because, if you remember correctly, in freshman year, he often rivaled with Rafe and got into fights over minor things. Regardless, you nod, thanking him for his response, and moving on to the next player with the next question.

"What do you think about Mr. Cameron's plays throughout the season?"

"Is that all you got for me, Mrs?" The second player teases playfully, causing heat to warm your cheeks. "Whatever, I got this. Well, let me think. Rafe's always had solid stats. He's one of the hardest-working players on and off the court, and he always keeps his head focused. Even when he had a bit of a bump a couple of months back, he adjusted his plays and bounced back. That’s his resilience."

Your breath hitches at the implication. You try your hardest not to sneak a glance at Rafe, but you can't help yourself. Turning to your side, you discover Rafe watching you, his expression grimacing at the confession of his teammate.

Months ago. The only thing that changed was your breakup. Does this mean he was as affected as you were?

You try not to think too much about that. Thanking the player again, you move to the next, asking more about Rafe's character—his prospects for the NBA, and his experience managing a student-athlete. You didn't ask just about Rafe, you asked about the games and conferences too, but most of the players always return their answers to Rafe. Positively. As if they had this unspoken agreement behind the scenes to hype Rafe up to his ex-girlfriend.

Time goes on, and you start to immerse yourself in the role. It wasn't as difficult as you expected, especially because you're entertaining a team who've known you all throughout their collegiate career. They answered the questions with enthusiasm and a playfulness that can only be recognized by years of familiarity. You can feel the energy from the reporters shift, stewed with envy, because of how the players are showing favoritism to a novice reporter who barely has her foot in the door.

Rafe watches you the entire time. How truly riveting you are in your role. How you command the room with your questions, how you captivate the players, and how you grow more comfortable as you talk to your teammates. He waits patiently as you make your way down the table, for his chance to talk to you.

But just as he's about to be next, you return the microphone to the moderator. You were going to leave him hanging. Before you can fully hand off the mic, a voice commands the room.

"What about me?"

It was Rafe. You lift your head to find him leaning against his own microphone propped on the table, his blue eyes pinned on you, his expression full of want. Your lips part, but no words fall through. The publicist doesn't take back the microphone.

You stammer. "What about you?"

"Don't you have any questions for me?" He questions, as the crowd murmurs with surprise. On any other day, Rafe would've gladly taken the lack of questions aimed at his face. You've done your research; you've seen his previous interviews.

"I..." You can't seem to answer him. All eyes—from the Coach, to the players (who are smiling their head off), to the reporters—turn to you. "I've asked all my questions."

"I'm sure you can think of one more," he declares, his eyes not once straying from your face. As if he's taking the time to memorize all of your features, to absorb any changes. "Come on, hit me."

Everyone waits. Eagerly. With jealousy. The media room stills with a palpable silence, and you can't do anything but retract your arm, holding the microphone back up to your lips.

You blink, racking your brain for any questions. You truly did ask all of them, and there's nothing appropriate enough to ask in front of a room full of people who are recording and monitoring your moves. So, you settle on something safe.

"How did you feel scoring that winning shot?"

Rafe takes a deliberate moment to consider his answer. His silence tells it all. Before he leans down against the mic, his lips centimeters from the pop filter, and he says, "Empty."

Flashes of the camera go off, and hushed whispers are heard throughout the room. But none of that matters to you. Your eyes remain on Rafe, your heart skipping beats from his confession, and you tame enough of your voice before asking a follow-up. "Can you explain why?"

He nods. "Basketball is great and all, and I'm grateful for everything that has happened, and all I have accomplished. Hell, I'm even grateful for this team right here that's been such a hardass on me since day one," he gestures to his teammates on the panel, and they all grin and laugh. One even blows him a kiss. "But, at the end of the day, it's just a game. Without the people you love by your side, it's meaningless."

You truly feel like all the air has been sucked out of your lungs and tears crowd your waterline. When his words finally deliver through, it's almost a straight shot to your chest. This was the admission you'd been waiting for, but it didn't feel satisfactory whatsoever. It's painful, all of the old wounds opening by their stitches, and grief comes crawling up your throat, demanding to be felt.

You don't answer him. You can't. Rafe watches you carefully, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to see if his words had any impact, but you hide them well. For now. With tears stinging your vision, and seconds from unraveling at the seams, you drop the microphone onto the chair and leave the room in a rush.

That's when he realizes he fucked up.

Rafe stands from his seat, ready to follow after you, but his Coach commands him to sit down. His gaze remains on you until you exit the room, but with direct orders, he can do nothing but slump back into his chair.

When Rafe finishes the rest of his interviews, with more reluctance than he had before, he wants nothing more than to go back to campus to search for you. But he doesn't know if that's such a good idea. Clearing out, Rafe steps out of the doors.

To where you were waiting.

"You had no right," you snap, as Rafe heads to the exit of the stadium. He whips around at the sound of your voice, finding you leaning against the wall. As much as he knows he fucked up, he can't explain the happiness he feels at seeing you still here.

"For what?" Rafe prompts with an easygoing smile, "Talking? I'm pretty sure that's what the press conference is about."

But you don't take it so easy.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," you huff, "You used my words against me."

During the breakup, Rafe had said something along the lines of focusing on his basketball career. You had rebutted that basketball can't be the one thing in his life. At the time, he disagreed, prompting the necessity of the breakup further. It had hurt to hear your words twisted and used against you.

"It was friendly," he reassures. "Just like the rest of my teammates. Talking like we're friends."

"We're not friends and you know that."

He frowns. "We said we would be."

"No, you said that," you hiss, clenching your hands by your side, memories slapping you and prickling your skin. "To rid yourself of the guilt, or to make it seem like permanent. I don't know. But it doesn't work that way with me, Rafe. We aren't friends."

His brows pinch together, and agitation flares through his hard features. "So, that's what it's gonna be like? You come to my games and you interview my entire team but you ignore me because we broke up? That's unprofessional."

You falter. "That's not fair."

"It isn't?" He challenges, stepping closer into your space. "How do you think I felt when you were interviewing every single one of my teammates about me, but refusing to talk to me? To look at me? What does that suggest?"

"That I got everything I needed from your teammates."

"You could've gotten it directly from the source."

"I didn't need to,"

"You could've,"

"Why are you so adamant about me talking to you?"

"Because you're acting like a vindictive bitch."

You stagger back as if he struck you, and Rafe instantly regretted the words that left his mouth. But he can't take them back. Your lips part, and you stare at him in disbelief, but you come up with nothing to defend yourself.

With the hardest glare you can muster, you proclaim, "Fuck you, Rafe."

And you turn to leave.

Rafe quickly follows after you. "Wait—that's not—I didn't mean that."

"I don't want to talk to you anymore."

"Just like you didn't want to talk to me in the conference room?"

"You broke up with me!" You snap, stopping in your tracks with such abruptness, that Rafe almost ran into you. Turning back around to face him, you say, "You were the love of my life, and you left me, and you expect me to keep it professional?"

Rafe says nothing.

"I'm trying," you croak, tears crowding your vision again, and you hate how vulnerable and pathetic you feel in his presence. Like it was back to that night in the car, where Rafe said it was over. "I'm trying to do this right."

Rafe watches your face with anguish, but he can't say anything. You're trying hard to keep your composure, and regain some semblance of stability, you say with a even voice, "I'm glad everything is working out the way you want it to. I'm glad you get this bigshot career and you're about to make it in the NBA, and I'm glad you found it so easy to move on but that's not how it worked with me." Your voice cracks. "I loved you. I can't just forget about it like it's nothing."

His voice is small when he answers. "I didn't."

"You didn't?" You repeat with disbelief. "Rafe, you're thriving. You barely look like our breakup had any impact on you. You're about to secure one of the biggest deals in NBA history. What else could you possibly be missing?"

"You."

His dark eyes connect with yours in utmost vulnerability and it cripples you. All your aggression and anger, all your pent-up frustration—it makes you upset that Rafe manage to disarm you with one word.

"No," you step back, shaking your head, "You can't do that."

"It's the truth."

"It's too late."

Rafe looks pained at your declaration. "Don't say that."

"Don't say what?" You sniffle, your vision blurring with hot tears. "My truth? Did you expect me to wait around for you to come to your senses? To beg for you to take me back?"

"I didn't..." Rafe stammers, searching your face for any indication that it isn't too late. That he still had a chance. But he doesn't find any. "I was honest back there. Any win without you feels empty."

"Stop,"

"I made a mistake."

"Rafe—" You shake your head again, sucking in a deep breath, and needing him to listen and step back. "I'm not here to talk about that. I don't want to talk about that."

"But I do,"

"But I don't," you declare firmly. "I just... I need you to understand. You can't do that. I'm trying to move on with my life. And I understand that we're going to be seeing each other, no matter how I don't want to. But I'll get used to it. I'll numb that pain. But you can't do that. Here; back there. It wasn't fair to me."

Your words sound too permanent. Too real. Rafe can't stand it.

With desperation, he pleads, "Can we talk?"

"We're already talking."

"No, I'm talking about us," Rafe says, taking a step forward. Only for you to take one back. "Please."

"There's nothing to talk about it."

"There's so much to say."

"Name one."

"I miss you."

"Rafe," you cry, tears streaming down your face that you can no longer contain. He hates seeing you cry. He hates it more to be the reason. All he wants is to pull you into his arms and apologize, over and over, to soothe the pain, but it looks as if it would hurt worse if he tried to touch you. "Please stop. You're breaking my heart again."

He made a mistake. There are so many times he can say that. When he saw you in the media room, for the first time in months, it came rushing back to what he's missing. How much he's losing you. He wanted to ask you so much—about how you're doing, to learn how you got the job, to uncover more about how close you are to achieving your dreams.

But he was barricaded. By responsibilities, obligations, and duties. He couldn't ask you in a room full of people. He couldn't help you when his father pressured him to break up with you for his career. He couldn't do anything, then. But he wants to do better now.

He says your name, so defeated, in a last-ditch effort. But you shake your head.

You need to leave this place with whatever is left of your pride and dignity. So, you straighten your spine, take out his jersey from your tote, and hand him the last remnant of your relationship. "Congratulations on your win, Mr. Cameron. I wish you the best in your career."

And when you turn to leave this time, he doesn't stop you.

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[aemondsbabe]

From Ashes, Fire | Claimant Pt 3

summary: dragons take what they want, you and your brother are no different. but what will be left to burn in the name of happiness?

pairing: dark!aemond x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark aemond, angst, angst but happy ending, very cersei/jaime coded moment that's all i'll say, major character death, noncanonical death, very brief descriptions of injury, blood, i promise it's nothing graphic, reader turns to the dark side lol, piv sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), minor breeding kink, possessive aemond, possessive reader, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 8.3k oops

a/n: this is it, the grand finale! i had so much fun with this series and i hope y'all enjoy the last bit!

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🔪read part 1 and part 2 here!

❤️my masterlist

🦋find me on ao3!

🌟add yourself to my taglist!

"Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

“Jaehaera, please,” Helaena’s voice is gentle and melodic even as she scolds her daughter, pointing at one of the straw-stuffed dolls in her tiny hands, “You must share with your brother; how about you let him play with the knight, hm?”

One of Maelor’s little fists wraps tightly around your pointer finger as you chuckle at the displeased frown on the toddler’s face when she shoves the doll in Jaehaerys’s direction, though her lips quickly lift into a smile at her mother’s praise. 

“Good, that’s very sweet of you,” your sister smiles, watching her eldest two children play, sitting cross-legged beside them on the plush blanket she’d had spread out on the grass. 

A cool breeze blows through the grassy field while you idly look around at the many red tents and campfires, observing the groups of people gathered around – knights sat at one of the many wooden tables, a few servants peel vegetables brought from the Keep, and various nobles, lady’s maids, and other court patrons shuffle about. 

Taking a deep breath, you turn your face toward the sun, cooler now as day turns to evening, and savor the first moment of peace you’ve had in nearly a week. The days since your marriage to Jace have been… eventful, to say the least, with each new duty feeling like another stab to your already fragile heart. Respite hadn’t even found you in the night, each one spent fending off your new husband’s advances with excuses of your menstrual flux having come early, headaches, and various other ailments. He was getting anxious, you could tell – each night he pushed back a little more, arguing the importance of consummating the marriage, reminding you of the vows you had both uttered in the Sept. 

But how can a vow mean much if the Gods know it was only ever a lie?

You had felt your mother’s eyes on you at every turn, watching you and your brother like a hawk. Though as the days progressed her fiery stare cooled to one of guilt – a penance for subjecting you to the same fate that had befallen her. You suspected that was why she and Rhaenyra had organized this little trip; a celebratory hunt they’d called it, to commemorate the rift between your two families finally being healed. 

“Dear, dear wife,” your oldest brother slurs, goblet clutched in one hand as he staggers toward you and Helaena, groaning when he flops down on the bench next to you. “Oh, you look… ravishing,” your lips quirk up into a smirk as he drapes an arm around your shoulders, giggling and making faces at Maelor. 

“What did I tell you,” your sister says through a huff of laughter, violet eyes finding yours, “They ignore you until they’re drunk.”

If only that were the case, you think as you force yourself to laugh in time with her. 

“That is quite rude,” Aegon chastises, brows furrowed in offense while he takes a messy swig of wine, a few red drops run down his chin. “Do you see how she treats me?” He pouts, leaning closer to you with a wry grin, “The deed is done though, yes? Bastard knew where to put it?”

“Aegon!” Helaena hisses, swatting at his knee. 

The two fall into a playful round of bickering, thankfully leaving you out of it. With a sigh, you let your gaze wander again, tumbling thoughts muffling your siblings voices. 

“It’s not as hard as it looks, here,” Daemon’s voice catches your attention and you watch as he points a knife at the belly of a deer he and Lucerys had hunted earlier in the day, showing the boy where to cut, “Get your knife in there – good, like that, and now just cut downwards, one clean movement…” You glance away as blood spills from the beast’s abdomen, staining the grass below it.

Looking over the treeline, you try to ignore the sick feeling building in the pit of your stomach, though you know it won’t be settled until Aemond’s back at camp. Biting at your lip, you let out an irritated huff when you can’t make out any movement in the distance, no sign of your brother or Ser Criston, even your husband. 

You’d only spoken to Aemond once since your marriage – a hushed conversation hidden away in an alcove when the two of you had a spare moment alone after supper. He’d held you while you’d cried against the crook of his neck, shushing you and running a soothing hand up and down your back. You remember the way his jaw felt, teeth clenched as he rested it atop your head, letting you tuck yourself into him while he vibrated with barely contained rage. 

“I can’t do this, I can’t,” you lamented, peering up at him with a mournful sob as your fingers clung to the dark jacket he wore, “They’re planning on going back to Dragonstone! Dragonstone, Aem!”

“Shh, little one,” his hands had cupped your cheeks, wiped away your tears with calloused thumbs, “I’m not letting them take you.”

His words had held such conviction, you’d wanted nothing more than to believe him, yet you’d shaken your head anyway. “I don’t think there’s any stopping them, this time,” your breath had hitched with each word, “You heard Rhaenyra, they’re leaving as soon as we’re back from the hunt and she would never agree to leave Jacaerys here, never.” 

You had known you were spiraling, head spinning as you’d looked up at him, and yet the words tumbled out anyway. “I hate him, I wish he’d just… just disappear!” It was a childish little jab and yet, your heart had leapt into your throat the moment you’d said it. You were expecting to feel the clawing ache of guilt gnaw at your stomach, however, a weightlessness followed. You’d never felt lighter than in that moment – tucked away in the shadows, a secret you’d harbored since childhood finally set free.

Aemond had stayed quiet, but you saw the way his violet eye sparkled, the gears turning in his head.

Your words had echoed in his head, calling out to him like a siren’s song – the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. 

Finally convinced that the three men are truly not just going to materialize at the edge of camp, your gaze shifts to where your mother and Rhaenyra sit, huddled together beside one of the many firepits. Bouncing little Maelor on your lap, you’re vaguely aware of Aegon and Helaena idly chatting beside you, something to do with how your brother believes some such thing about the Small Council is a waste of time – a frequent complaint of his since taking the throne. 

You’re hardly listening though, head cocked to the side while you watch the two women laughing and animatedly conversing; they remind you of the young girls at court – youthful and carefree, too wrapped up in one another to notice much around them. 

That’s why she let them go together, that shadowy voice in the back of your head hisses, Too distracted to know better. You clench your jaw, only halfway aware of the stinging pain at your cuticle as you dig a nail into it.

“What say you to accompanying me on a hunt, nephew?” Aemond had asked earlier in the afternoon, voice low as he slunk over to where you, Jace, and your mothers had been sitting at one of the wooden tables, picking through a light lunch the cooks at the Keep had prepared.

“Aemond,” Alicent had sighed wearily, leaning heavily on her elbows while Rhaenyra regarded your brother with a cool indifference – evidently unaware of your family’s tensions. 

“What? I merely wish to bond with my dearest sister’s new husband.”

“Uncle,” Jace had finally spoken up, pointedly grasping one of your hands that had sat on the table, “As much as I would love to accompany you, don’t you think it a bit unwise for only the two of us to go? If I remember correctly from my youth, your father used to take a whole host of men into the woods with him…” 

“Do you not think yourself man enough to take on a measly buck, nephew?”

“Aemond!”

“Don’t fret, mother. ‘Twas only a joke, a tasteless one, I admit,” your hackles had raised at that, at how quickly he had stood down, so wholly unlike your brother, “Besides, I’ve taken the liberty of asking Ser Criston to accompany us as well.”

It was then, at the mention of the knight, that Rhaenyra had leaned closer to Alicent, the two of them laughing softly and sharing knowing glances while your half-sister whispered into her ear. 

“Surely the three of us are more than capable of subduing a deer or two, don’t you think?” 

Jace had balked at that, sighing heavily as his grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly. 

“I think it sounds like a wonderful idea,” you had coached your lips into a tight smile when you interjected, “Doesn’t that sound like a lovely idea, mother?”

“Hm?” She had blinked, finally parting from Rhaenyra, the ghost of a smile still on her lips. 

“For Ser Criston to accompany Jace and Aemond, to go hunting with them.”

“Well, I –”

“Surely that would be safest, yes?” You pushed, glancing at Jace before locking eyes with Aemond, “A knight with them, a Kingsguard no less.” 

“I think it sounds like a fine idea,” Rhaenyra had smiled, squeezing one of your mother’s hands, “They should take the time to bond, no? Savor it while we’re together these last few days.” 

“Yes… yes, a fine idea,” she had immediately agreed, always swaying to your half-sister. 

“Wonderful,” your brother murmured, a slow smile spreading across his lips as he clasped his arms behind his back, “I’ll have Ser Criston ready the horses.” With that, he had stalked away, giving you one final glance. 

“You truly think this a good idea?” Your husband had questioned, turning to you while your mothers got lost in yet another hushed conversation.

“Of course!” You had nodded, clasping one of his hands in both of yours, “Aemond is… odd with his affections. This is just his way of attempting to rectify things, I’m sure of it.” 

“I suppose…,” he had sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

“It’ll be fine,” you had urged, going so far as to lean over and press a kiss against his cheek, one of the scant few times you had initiated any affections. 

Those words had echoed in your head while you watched the three men sheath their swords and load various bows and arrows onto their horses, the midday sun suddenly feeling much too warm against your skin. 

It’ll be fine, you had reminded yourself for the millionth time when they set off, horses galloping along a narrow path that led into the Kingswood, He’s not letting them take me, it’ll be fine. 

“Oh, shit,” Aegon whispers beside you, nearly dropping his goblet. 

You quickly follow his eyeline, looking to where he stares at one of the small paths that lead into the camp – the sight wrenching a hitched gasp from your throat. 

A hush seems to fall over the entirety of the camp, only for the quickest of seconds, before chaos erupts. Aemond stands before one of the horses, a grey one you recognize as Jace’s, steadying it while Criston pulls your husband from the saddle, smearing the side of the animal with thick streaks of red. 

Daemon quickly runs over to assist while you hastily hand Maelor back to Helaena, hardly looking in her direction as you do. 

“Jace? Jacaerys?!” Rhaenyra calls, picking up her skirts as she sprints over, violet eyes wide with terror, “What is it? What’s happened?”

Every noise sounds muffled when you make your way over to the huddle of commotion, Alicent following closely behind. A strange detached sensation fills you while you watch Criston and Daemon lay Jace down on a nearby bench, blood immediately soaking into the silk fabric of the pillows. 

It feels as if everything is happening both too quickly and too slowly all at once – a few of the other knights rush forward, hastily pulling his tunic out of the way before pressing stark white medical linens to the gaping cut on his side. They bark orders over his body, yelling for the servants to bring water and more linens. 

You feel your mother and Helaena grabbing at your arms and it’s only then you realize you’re shaking, swaying in place like a leaf on a branch; you know they’re talking to you but their words are dulled by the rushing of blood in your ears.

Somewhere in your periphery, you register the sound of Daemon’s voice, thick with desperation as he shouts question after question at Criston, “What happened? When? How? How long ago? How could you, you were supposed to protect him?!” They blend together, echoing through the haze in a roaring hum. 

Distantly, you register the feel of another warm body pressing into the small pack you find yourself a part of. Helaena shushes someone next to you and your gaze tears itself away from the pools of crimson gathering on the grass just long enough to realize that it’s Luke. Your heart breaks at that, a sharp pang in your chest at the fact that the poor boy is distressed enough to seek comfort from your family, of all places. 

“No! No, no, no!” Rhaenyra’s wails slice through the fog clouding your mind in such an exacting manner that your knees buckle, “Jace, Jace, look at me, please? Sweetling, please look at me!” She sobs, leaning over her son, one hand cradling his cheek. 

Unseeing brown eyes stare, unblinking, up at the hazy orange sky while yours focus solely on a single, paralyzing flash of violet. 

He’s not letting them take me, it’ll be fine. 

The Sept is eerily quiet, normal for this time of night but unsettling all the same; the occasional fizzling noises of the dozens of flickering candles is the only way you’re able to discern that time hasn’t simply halted. Pale moonlight shines in through the windows, bathing the floor in a star-shaped pool of light and making the whites of the painted eyes resting atop Jace’s face glow like beacons. 

You had picked out the stones and painted the eyes on them yourself, taking them from a spot in the gardens you knew he had favored when you were children and spent hours sourcing the pigments to make just the right shade of brown – one that reminded you of the rich chocolates that had been imported from Essos for your betrothal feast. 

“A wife’s duty,” your mother had said.

Rhaenyra had glared at you the whole time; silently, you wondered if she somehow knew it wasn’t duty that drove you – only atonement. 

Atonement, your mind echoes as you sit upon the cool stone steps beneath the Seven-Pointed Star, leaning your head against the bannister as you force yourself to look at his body, still atop black silks. 

Must one feel guilt to atone? Must I atone for not feeling it? When will it end?

Those questions had plagued you in the days since Jace died, bled out like a hunter’s boon in the field by the Kingswood. They’d settled over you like a fever, an ever-present haunting ache, made only worse by the soft, sinful voice in the back of your head that whispered the truth – that you didn’t care, that you don’t even now. 

You hadn’t cared, even as blood seeped from the gash at his side, even as you forced yourself to kneel by his still warm body and press gentle kisses to his forehead – the performance of a good wife. 

You hadn’t cared in the carriage ride back to the Keep, letting your mother and your sister hold you while you cried – I’m sad, I’m sad, I’m crying because I’m sad, I’m crying because I should be sad.

And you hadn’t cared when Aemond had come to you in the dead of night, had slipped into your chambers – your chambers – through one of the many hidden passageways in the old castle. 

“How?” You had asked, tracing patterns onto the pale skin of his bare chest while the two of you laid tangled in your silk sheets. 

“A boar,” he answered plainly, speaking through a sigh while running his fingers over the thigh you had draped across his hips, “Just as I’ve told you the last four times you’ve asked.”

“Aemond,” you sighed in that same tired tone your mother so often used; your eyes had narrowed when you saw the corner of his lips just barely twitch up into a smile; were it any other time, he would’ve made a cheeky comment about the similarity. 

“I’ve told you,” his grip tightened ever so slightly on your thigh and his other hand had grasped at your chin, guiding your eyes to his, “We had been tracking a buck, had gotten close and dismounted our horses, and had, I assume, stumbled into the beast’s territory and it charged at us.”

“Brother,” you had whispered, shaking your head and cupping his cheek, “Have you forgotten that I can tell when you lie?” 

He had stayed silent for a long while at that, jaw clenched while he stared at some point off in the distance, lips drawn into a tight line. Eventually, you had laid your head down, resting your cheek on his shoulder while you tried to accept that you wouldn’t be getting the truth that night, if ever.

It was only then that he had spoken.

“Please, let me protect you.” 

“Protect me?” You had looked up, brows furrowed as you studied his face, “From what?”

“From the law –”

“Our brother is king, if he says it was not murder, if he says it was an accident, which he already has done, then no one will question his –”

“Fine, then,” he had snapped, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “From the damn Gods! I…” He trailed off, sighing heavily while he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“... the Gods?”

He’d finally looked at you again and your heart had pinched meanly in your chest when you saw tears gathering in his violet eye, “They will judge me harshly for what I’ve done, whenever the time comes, but… I will not subject you to the same fate.”

You had scoffed at that, had rolled your eyes when he looked away shamefully and had climbed atop him then, straddled his hips and turned his face toward yours, “I don’t give a shit about the Gods.” 

“What?”

“I don’t,” you repeated, leaning down until your forehead touched his, “If they were good Gods, if they cared, they would not have subjected me to that sham of a marriage in the first place. They would’ve guided our mother rightly, but they didn’t.”

“Sister, I –”

“And I hate that our nephew paid for that, Aemond, I truly do, but I am the one who told you to do it.”

He had shaken his head while a mournful peal of laughter clawed its way out of his throat, “You didn’t tell me to do any–”

“Perhaps not directly,” you interjected, smiling sadly while you cupped both of his cheeks in your hands, running a thumb over the scar beneath his eye, “But I did. I could’ve told you not to, could’ve said I didn’t mean it, could’ve cautioned our mother against letting him go with you, but… I didn’t.”

“No… no, I suppose you didn’t,” he sighed, swallowing thickly as he tried in vain to blink away tears.

“I didn’t,” you echoed, your words hushed and cooed, like a mother soothing an infant, “I know what you’re capable of, I knew it then, and I didn’t.”

He nodded, his breath stuttered in his throat as a single tear rolled down his cheek. 

“Because I knew you’d protect me… and you did.” 

“I did,” he mumbled, nodding up at you as his face twisted and a small sob bubbled from his lips, “I did, I did it. I did it, I did. For you, for us.” 

“I know,” you murmured sweetly, stroking a hand over his long hair while you pressed sweet kisses against his forehead. You held him as he cried, huddled together in the dark of your chambers 

And you hadn’t cared when you realized you were smiling. 

“The hour is quite late, little one,” the suddenness of his voice makes you jump, though you settle quickly. 

“So it is,” you smile and look over your shoulder, tilting your head up while he walks down the steps to join you, “The hour of ghosts, yes? Fitting.” 

He huffs as he sits beside you before regarding you with a slight smirk, “I suppose it is,” he murmurs, only sparing the red and black draped body on the altar a passing glance.

“Why are you here?”

“I was looking for you… Hel said you would probably be here.”

“Mm,” you nod, idly running a finger over the pattern on your skirts, finding a morbid sort of beauty in the way the rich black silks glimmered in the candlelight. 

“Why are you here?” Aemond asks, eye following the line of your profile. 

“Praying.”

Without looking, you can practically feel him rolling his eye beside you, huffing a little breathy laugh again, “Have you forgotten that I can tell when you lie, sweet sister?”

Hearing your own words from the night before parroted back to you pulls a laugh from you as well, though you wince as your giggle echoes throughout the Sept. “It’s funny,” you sigh, glancing about the cavernous space before finally looking at him, “This is the only place where no one wants to be.” 

He hums next to you and nods his head, lets the two of you sit in silence for a moment before you continue. 

“I don’t have to pretend when I’m here.” 

“Pretend?” 

Biting at your bottom lip, you nod and lean into his touch when he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “That I’m sad… that I feel anything, really,” you sigh, breathing the words more so than saying them, “All Rhaenyra does is cry, Daemon is ready to strangle anything that moves, Lucerys is despondent to the point of being mute. Even our own mother cries for him and I cannot muster a single tear that isn’t a farce.”

Your eyes trail back over to Jace and you regard him with a mournful stare, staying silent for a long moment as you try to will yourself to feel sad, to feel angry, to feel guilty… yet nothing comes.

“Everyone grieves differently,” Aemond mumbles beside you, though his words only serve to make you more bitter, “Perhaps, in time –”

“In time nothing will happen,” you snap, grimacing at the harshness in your voice, “I’m not sad and I am… I’m tired of pretending I am.” You murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder. 

Aemond is quiet for a long while, though you can feel the energy radiating off of him in waves – you’ve always been able to tell when he has a lot on his mind. You’re content to simply let him think, taking his silence as a cue that it’s your turn to let him sort through things. 

“You… are happy, though? Yes?” He finally asks after several long minutes, going strangely rigid next to you as if he’s afraid of your answer, “I know you say you aren’t sad but…”

“Aemond,” you sigh, sitting up and staring at him as a slow, creeping smile spreads across your face, “I have never been happier.”

“Truly?”

“Yes!” You quickly shift yourself on the stairs, turning yourself more toward him and placing a gentle hand on top of his thigh, “Big brother, you saved me.”

He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him get a word in edgewise before the emotions you’ve been bottling up over the last few days finally spill over and you practically throw yourself into his lap, straddling his hips. 

“Brother, I've been tethered to him since I was eight and you have freed me from that,” you say softly, voice hardly carrying in the air. Slowly, carefully you pull his eyepatch off, the only one ever allowed to do so; there is a sadness in your smile when you gently trail your fingers over the crease of his scar, “We both lost something that night and have suffered for it ever since.”

Without another word, you press your lips to his and savor the groan your kiss pulls from him. His hands grab at your hips in the same instance yours card through his hair while your lips move together in a practiced rhythm. 

Impatient, one of your hands travels down his chest and stomach, though you hardly have time to pull at the hem of his dark tunic before he grabs your wrist, stopping you. 

“Aemond,” you huff, fighting against his grip. 

“Surely you don’t mean to defile this place in such a way,” he murmurs, violet eye sparkling as if he were challenging you, even as he glances over your shoulder, “What would your dear husband think?

You grin at the lecherous smirk on his lips, heart pounding in your chest as a familiar ache settles at the apex of your thighs. You give one final glance over your shoulder before turning back to him with a dismissive shrug. “Husband in name only,” you remind him, yanking your hand out of his grasp and trailing your fingers over the growing bulge beneath his trousers, “I have only ever been devoted to you.”

A rough growl leaves his lips and he clenches his jaw, narrowing his eye. “We will burn for this, sweet sister,” he huffs, pale cheeks flushing while he stares up at you, one hand still settled on your hip as the other comes up to cup your jaw. 

“The Seven can have their say,” your cunt clenches at the way he looks at you – surprise, lust, even reverence giving such an intensity to his gaze that it nearly knocks the wind from your lungs, “The Old Valyrian Gods can as well, I don’t care. Aemond, I don’t.”

Your hand finally, blessedly, pulls free the ties at the top of his trousers and you quickly find his length. The sharp grunt that’s wrenched from his throat when your hand wraps around it echoes through the Sept, each iteration of it making the fire in your belly burn brighter and brighter. 

He doesn’t attempt to stop you when you plunge a hand beneath the fabric of your black skirts and hastily tug your smallclothes out of the way, he merely studies you in awe, as if watching a newly hatched dragon spread its wings for the first time. His gaze makes you shiver, though you dare not look away.

“What do you care about, little one?” He murmurs suddenly, unable to help himself from glancing between your bodies, licking his lips while he watches you use your fingers to prepare yourself as you rub your own slick through your folds. 

“You,” you whisper, shuddering at the way you both gasp at the same time when you rut against his already throbbing length, “You are the only god I’ve ever worshiped, big brother.”

A loud groan bursts free of his lips at that and the hunger in his eye nearly catches you alight, and yet he still grabs at your hips tightly, preventing you from sinking onto his length – so out of his element, wholly unused to being taken in such a way. “Come, let us go to my chambers,” he tries, breathing your name against your neck as he leans up, “Where I can take you properly, hm? No risk of anyone interrupting…”

Undeterred, you simply shake your head and lean forward, pressing your lips against his in an eager, near feral kiss. It’s mostly teeth and tongues and thankfully, it’s enough to shock him into loosening his grip, just enough for you to take what you want. You bite at his bottom lip when you sink down onto his length, hard enough to taste iron, making him growl into the kiss, the sound of it deepening to a low groan at the feel of your tight cunt around him. 

The feel of his cock stretching you open somehow only gets better each time and leaves you gasping in his lap, your hands grabbing at his shoulders for leverage while you begin grinding yourself against him, impatient and ravenous. “Ohh, f-fuck,” you curse, squeezing your eyes shut while your walls flutter around him. 

Aemond’s chest heaves under your hands while he stares up at you, lips parted ever so slightly as breathy groans spill, unbidden, from them. Opening your eyes, your gaze is immediately drawn to a little smear of red beside his mouth and you lean forward – licking his pale skin clean without a second thought. 

“Little minx,” he smirks, meanly grabbing at your hips again and bucking up into you. He huffs a soft laugh at the sharp moan that bursts from you, sounding louder still in the large open space of the Sept; there’s a dangerous, challenging gleam in his eye that makes you shiver. “Go on, then,” he rasps, trailing a hand up from your hip to cup the underside of your breast, his touch warm even through the bodice of your gown, “Worship your god.”

A soft, stuttered moan wrenches itself from your lips at that and you quickly obey, staking your claim over him. As you find your rhythm, rutting wildly in his lap, the only sounds echoing off the walls are that of panted breaths and the slick, wet noises from where the two of you connect. “You’re mine,” you breathe, leaning forward to bite at his throat, determined to mark him in as many ways as possible, “Y-You’ve always been mine, Aemond.” 

He nods his head, hands scrambling at the ties on your bodice, determined to free your breasts. “I’m yours?” He taunts, sighing victoriously when he finally manages to practically rip the top of your gown open; his tongue darts out, wetting his lips at the sight of them and he allows himself a few seconds to appreciate the way they bounce so enticingly with each of your determined movements, “Show me, then… show me who I belong to, sweet sister.”

Something snaps inside you then, breaking and clicking perfectly into place all in the same breath; the feeble thing that was holding the dam inside of you shut disappears. Whatever greedy darkness Aemond has always harbored within himself has been slowly seeping into you since the night of your betrothal feast and now, it seems, it has finally settled into your bones as well. It’s as if he can sense it in the same instance you do and gives a subtle nod of his head, commanding you to give in. 

With renewed vigor, you grind against him harshly, pressing your hips as far down onto him as you can manage until you can feel his cock pressing against the entrance to your womb. The thought of him there, of the possibility of his seed catching, of the possibility that it may already have, spurs you on further. 

“I would kill for you, too,” you say lowly through clenched teeth, licking up the side of his neck until you can whisper into his ear, “I’ll do anything to have you, my love, I don’t care what it is.”

A low groan reverberates from within his chest, both of you all but snarling as you move together; his hips rut up against yours, unable to hold still any longer, and he bites a path down your neck until he reaches the softness of your breasts. You gasp as he teases at one nipple, flicking at it with the tip of his tongue while his fingers toy with the other one, only to cut yourself off with a loud moan when his lips seal around it. 

“I would burn this city to the fucking ground if that’s what… what it took, brother,” the words tumble from your lips when you card your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head and holding him against your chest. Your head tilts down, heart pounding in your chest while you watch him savor the feel of your warm flesh in his mouth; his violet eye snaps up and his gaze bores into yours, making your cunt clutch greedily at his length. 

Feeling the knot building quickly in your belly, aided by the way your sensitive pearl brushes against the small patch of hair at the base of Aemond’s cock, you only grow more needy – craving confirmation that he is yours, that no one will be able to take him from you again. Your breath catches in your throat when you recall a conversation the two of you had had a few nights ago, the night of Jace’s death.

The two of you had been cuddled in your bed together, panting in sweat-damp sheets, when he had cupped your cheek and turned your face to his. 

“What is it?” You asked, familiar with the faraway look in his eye – God’s knew where he could’ve been in that moment.

“Marry me.”

His whispered demand had knocked the air from your lungs then, the whole world may as well have come to a grinding halt on its axis. “Aemond, we must wait, you know this. I hate it as much as you do but –”

“We need to wait for a Westerosi wedding, yes,” he murmured, leaning over you and shushing you with a soft kiss, “Too soon and it looks suspicious.”

“But –”

“But… a wedding in the tradition of our house need not wait, little one,” the determination in his eye had shocked you then, had warmed you from the inside out, “Our sister and her cunt of a husband hardly waited until Laena and Laenor were cold before they married… we could do the same.”

You had stayed quiet after that, too much death and change and uncertainty clouding your mind to give him an answer, and yet you knew he was right. Rhaenyra and Daemon had married in secret, so soon after Laenor’s sudden passing that it had always seemed a bit odd to you. Yet, no one ever questioned it; your own father had accepted it without so much as a blink, writing the marriage into law with no fuss. Aegon would do the same for you, you felt certain. 

Nothing was stopping you, nothing that mattered, anyway. 

That thought fuels you now as you rock on Aemond’s lap, both of you barreling toward your eventual ends. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him away from your breast despite his growl of displeasure. Just as he had with you, you cup his cheeks, focusing his attention on you. 

“Marry me.”

The rhythm of his hips hitches at your words and he fucks up into you harshly, moving you more desperately against him as another loud, guttural moan echoes through the chamber. 

“Tonight,” you continue, brows furrowing as you stare at him, greedily drinking him in, “I cannot wait any longer, brother, tonight, please…” 

A vicious, conquering smirk grows on his lips, white teeth gleaming in the low candlelight like a snarling dog. “You wish to be mine, is that it?” He teases, reaching between your two writhing bodies to rub hungrily at your pearl, savoring the pretty breathy moans he earns. 

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish speaking as an unrelenting, all consuming possessive ache starts spreading out from your heart, flowing through your blood vessels like fire. “I don’t wish it,” you pant, forehead resting against his while the wildfire burning in your belly threatens to burn you whole, “I told you, I would kill for you and… and, fuck, I swear it. A-Aemond, no one will have you ever again, never, none except me…”

Your words descend into a barely intelligible murmur as you finally let go, pushed suddenly over the edge at the thought of being so tightly bound together that no one would be able to tear the two of you apart again. Your brother growls again at the feel of your cunt pulsing around him, the movements spurring him toward his own end. 

He grabs at you when he follows you into oblivion, holding you against him as if you’d disappear otherwise. The feel of his spend spilling into you, filling you, nearly sends you over the edge again and you cling to him just as harshly, holding him while he trembles beneath you. 

“You are a vicious little thing,” he says softly after some minutes, holding you against his chest while the two of you catch your breaths.

“I learned from the best.”

He only sighs at that but you don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling. “I would do it again for you,” he mumbles, eye fixed on Jace, “I would do it a thousand times over.”

He speaks in a reverent whisper, promises of death and destruction as sweet as a prayer on his lips. 

Aemond’s hand is warm in yours as he leads you through the winding corridors below the Red Keep, the flickering light from the torches lining the walls making the various statues and reliefs dance in your periphery. 

“I’ve always hated that he’s down here, stowed away,” he murmurs, yet his voice still carries some among the stone hallways.

“Mm,” you hum in agreement, glancing into each shadowy alcove you come across while you try to ignore the wild beating in your chest – the way your heart clenches at the thought of finally being so close to what you’ve always wanted. “Yes, he should be out in the sun, somewhere he can be celebrated.”

The old cellars under the Keep have always seemed so haunting to you, so cold and empty. The thought of the walls down here being lined with the ashen remains of generations upon generations of your ancestors had never failed to send a shiver down your spine. Yet, they unfold before you now like paradise; even the still, musty air begins to smell as sweet as honeyed wine. 

For the briefest of seconds, guilt joins you – walks alongside you, invisible like the Stranger. A stuttered heartbeat, that’s all and then it’s gone, at the thought that Jace would join them tomorrow, still warm from Vermax’s fire. 

How ironic, you think, glancing up at your brother and admiring the way the light gleams on his sapphire eye, That a place that holds so much death would be where our lives finally begin.

“I don’t want to wait any longer,” you’d said again, retying your bodice while Aemond tucked himself back into his trousers and searched for his eyepatch.

“Nor do I,” he agreed, stuffing the small scrap of fabric into a pocket – the streets of King’s Landing would be deserted enough at this time of night that he could get away without wearing it. “Tensions are bound to rise after tomorrow, after everything is said and done; I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

You had nodded and followed him out of the Sept, through one of the many old, forgotten tunnels that only a scant few knew existed, the list of which definitely didn’t include the guards stationed at the front of the building who had escorted your carriage earlier that evening. 

While he had helped you onto the back of his horse, the two of you shared a knowing look, each of you already thinking the same thing. 

Turning down one final corridor, your heart thuds in your chest as you’re finally met with Balerion’s petrifying gaze and, just like every other time you’d been in his presence, a little huff of reverence leaves you. Your eyes dance over the rows of his razor sharp teeth, gleaming in the glow of dozens of candles, and you can’t help but imagine the horrors those jaws have inflicted, the pain they wrought while subduing the continent – all in your family’s name. 

“Targaryens have always taken what we’ve wanted,” Aemond murmurs beside you, staring up at the gargantuan skull with just as much respect as you are, “Tamed our desires in fields of fire.”

“And rivers of blood,” you turn your heads at the same time, soft smiles on your lips when your eyes meet, like you’re sharing sweet words of love rather than painting pictures of horrors. 

Perhaps that is what wrath is for us, you wonder, your eyes flicking between violet and sapphire when you turn toward your brother, What is death if not the sweetest of devotions?

He takes your hands in his, glancing down when your fingers intertwine before looking back up at you; you can feel yourself blushing under his intense gaze, heart squeezing in your chest as he looks at you like that in and of itself is an honor. There’s such softness in his eye, you would think him incapable of violence if you didn’t know better. 

“You truly wish for this?” He questions one last time, needing to be sure. 

“I’ve told you, I do not wish,” your hands squeeze his, “I need this, Aemond… I would kill for you, for this – for us. Anything, just as you did.” 

Your voice trembles when you speak, the intensity of your hushed promises making your head spin because you would. The want you feel, that you have always felt, is not some soft yearning thing. It’s not so simple as some mere whisper uttered in the dead of night at a holy altar while your skin is awash with the glow of candlelight, no. 

No, your want is something far more insidious – something deep-seated. An oppressive, clinging thing that has always coaxed you further and further down into that shadowy part of yourself; the part that has always reminded you too much of him. 

The demon, lurking in your periphery, that has always begged you to look, has tempted you since childhood with the sweetest of promises, finally rejoices. 

Aemond nods, a satisfied smile pulling at the corner of his lips, and you watch as he lets go of one of your hands to unsheath his dagger. The sight of the worn leather handle makes you smile bashfully, though your core clenches all the same, and you gasp when you feel another drop of his seed soak into your smallclothes. 

“You know the words?”

Again, he nods and your head cocks to the side curiously when a wash of pink grows on his pale cheeks; he smiles again and fixes you with that same intense stare. “I used to spend hours reading them, over and over, when we were children,” he whispers, leaning closer to you like he’s revealing some deep, dark secret, “I always wanted to get them perfect for you.” 

A little peal of laughter echoes through the cellars before you swallow thickly, trying to tamper the tightness at the back of your throat as the backs of your eyes sting, tears pooling in your waterline. He cups your cheek and you smile when he brushes one away, a pleased hum leaves his lips when you nod. 

Aemond raises the dagger, glancing between its shining blade and your lips while you ready yourself, one hand clenching at the black silk of your skirts. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises. 

You hold stock-still, gasping when he presses the cool edge of it against your lower lip, yet your eyes don’t leave his when he finally cuts – nicking your delicate flesh just enough to draw blood before offering you the dagger. Grasping it, you mirror his steps exactly, just as careful with him. 

Setting the dagger to the side, you both reach up at the same time, swiping a thumb over your own lip before reaching out. Your arms intertwine when you brush each other’s foreheads, leaving behind two crimson lines. 

His gaze never breaks from yours as he takes the blade again and carefully cuts his palm, holding it out to you again and waiting while you do the same, gasping at the sharp sting. Finally, the two of you join hands, blood mingling together as a few drops of it splatter on the stone floor as Balerion bears witness to your union. 

“Hen lantoti ānogar, va syndroti vāedroma, mēro perzot gīhoti, elēdroma iārza sīr,” he recites, murmuring the words with care, making sure to enunciate each syllable, to make the vows unmistakeable to whichever ghosts may be listening, “Izulī ampā perzī, prūmī lanti sēteksi, hen jeny māzīlarion,” (Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass.)

Aemond pauses, taking a breath as he squeezes your hand with his, echoing your smile.

“Qēlossa ozūndesi, syndroro ōñō jēdo, ry kīvia mazvestraksi,” he finishes, all but breathing the last few words as his eye grows misty. (The stars stand witness, the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light.)

The two of you stand still for a moment like you’re waiting for the world to crash down around you and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours as your palms press together, both of you seemingly in shock at finally, finally having everything you’ve ever wanted. 

You can’t tell who moves first but suddenly you’re crashing against him, dagger clanging as it hits the floor, while the two of you clutch at one another desperately, uncaring of the blood smearing on your clothes. 

Your lips press against his like they’re a lifeline and you moan at the touch, swiping your tongue over his while you grab at the lapels of his jacket. His hands cup your cheeks, staining one with red, before carding through your hair. 

“Gods,” he groans, resting his forehead against yours while the two of you pant, breathing out soft laughs. “My little wife…” He says the word slowly, lets it drag over his tongue. 

“Husband,” you reply between soft kisses to his cheek, head spinning at how a word that once had to be dragged from you, that had scraped against your skin like thorns, now felt like silk slipping cooly over you. 

Your brother growls deep in his chest and his eye flutters shut for a second before his hands are at your waist again and he’s walking you backwards, only a few paces, until you’re pressed against one of the stone columns surrounding the great dragon’s skull. Though your landing is soft, it wrenches a gasp from you all the same but you don’t have time to question his intent before his lips are on yours again.

You moan into the kiss, matching each of his deep groans with one of your own as your tongues tangle together. “Aemond,” you pant when he begins trailing kisses down across your jaw and neck, “What –”

He nips at your cleavage then and you can feel him smirking at the loud whine he pulls from you, soothing the skin after with a sweet kiss before sinking to his knees before you. The sight is enough to make you weak – the man that loves you more than eternity itself, who loves you enough to do terrible, monstrous things, kneeling at your feet and staring up at you like you are his salvation. 

Your hands tangle in his soft hair while he pulls at your skirts, pushing them up and out of the way, kissing your thighs as he goes. “You had the chance to worship at your altar, sweetest little wife,” he pants, groaning when he pushes your smallclothes to the side and licking his lips at the sight of your cunt, still wet with your combined spend, “Now let me worship at mine.”

That’s the only warning you get before he dives in, lapping at your center with a loud, satiated growl. Your head thuds back against the column while your eyes are fixed, half-lidded, on Balerion, on the fire that surrounds him. 

You understand, then – the curtains of fire that blanketed the continent were necessary to conquer it, just as blood was necessary to bind the two of you. Perhaps one day you’ll be called to answer for that, but even then you would do it a thousand times over; even if the dark, shadowy parts of yourself, of him, lead to the deepest pits of the Seven Hells. You would do it, again and again, for him. 

You were always meant to burn together.

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

consider adding yourself to my tag list or check out my works on ao3!

[floralcyanide]

ʙᴏʙʙʏ's ɢɪʀʟ

(joe rantz x fem!reader)

Joe has a major crush on you, but you're Bobby's girl. Or so he thinks.

✣ warnings: cursing, mentions of fighting

✣ word count: 1.4k

✣ author’s note: I wish I had more time to work on this, but I've been busy with work, and a friend has been in town so ): I will definitely post more Joe though. hopefully it'll be better quality lol I just wasn't sure of what to write for Joe specifically so this is sort of a brain dump.

masterlist | divider credit: @cafekitsune

this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ��ʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

Joe Rantz has a major crush on you, but you’re Bobby’s girl- or that’s what he thought. 

The first time Joe sees you is when the team meets Bobby, their new coxswain. You had tagged along as you followed Bobby everywhere he went, as he did you. The two of you were as thick as thieves. It made Joe a little jealous because he thought you were attractive, and Bobby didn’t seem like the type to have a girl on his arm all the time. Don’t get him wrong, Joe respects Bobby. But he seemed more focused on other things rather than dating. Joe watched you that whole day when his attention wasn’t on rowing. As the weeks of practice continued, the more the boys got to know you. Plus, the more they improved, the more you cheered them on. You took pride in getting the boys in the boat to do better than before. And the more you pushed them from the dock, much like Bobby did in his seat, the more they showed out for you, especially Joe. Joe would catch you smiling at him, and he’d smile back but would quickly recover. You’re Bobby’s girl.

After the team’s first win, you’re glued to Bobby’s side at the celebratory party. Joe tries to keep his eyes off you and your stunning outfit but fails most of the night. At one point, you separate from Bobby to converse with Don and Chuck for a little while. Then, you find Joe, who is tucked away in the back of the gymnasium. He quickly looked away from you, not to give himself away.

“Enjoying the party?” you ask, nursing your punch glass.

“Not really my scene,” Joe shrugs.

“Oh,” you nod, “What is your scene, then?”

“The library, usually. Or the boat, of course.”

“I’d say so. You’re great at rowing. I love watching you all.”

Joe blushes at that, “I’m glad.”

Suddenly, Bobby pulls the needle off the record player on stage, forcibly introducing Don as the live music for the night. You and Joe watch, amused, as the boys shove Don across the stage and to the piano bench. Don dug his heels into the stage floor the best he could, to no avail. He nervously looks out at the crowd before beginning to play. 

“Wanna dance?” you ask Joe.

He hesitates for a moment before answering, “Sure.”

The two of you dance along to the music, singing along as well. Joe tries not to let himself get too deep in his head about how close you are to him. You sense this, trying not to get too handsy despite your inner desire to. You leave room between the two of you for it to be casual. When the song ends, you kiss Joe on the cheek and go to find Bobby. Joe’s cheek burns the rest of the night as he reaches up to brush his fingers across it a few times. He wanted to make sure what had happened was real.

Bobby encourages you to tag along with the team to the East Coast. This race was significant for the boys and would throw them off if you weren’t there. Bobby especially- Joe even more. On the train there, you sit with Bobby. You’re mid-conversation about the paper he’s reading when suddenly, Joe lunges at Chuck. You hurry to stand from your seat and pull them apart, following Joe to the other side of the train when he hurries away from the group.

You stand there momentarily as Joe catches his breath, his face beet red.

“What was that all about?”

Joe brushes you off, not making eye contact. You sigh and sit next to him.

“Chuck probably didn’t mean it like that, Joe,” you put a hand on his shoulder, “Even if he did, you know his jokes are shit anyway.”

Joe cracks a smile at that, glancing over at you without moving his head, “Yeah.”

Before you can say anything else, Chuck comes to apologize, and you get up and leave them to it. When you return to your seat, Bobby is smirking knowingly.

“What?” you ask, already knowing what’s gonna come out of his mouth.

“Nothing,” Bobby says, returning his eyes to the paper he was still reading.

“Just say it,” you sigh.

“You guys should kiss already.”

You snort, “I don’t think Joe likes me like that, Bobby.”

“It’s so obvious,” Bobby slams his paper down on his lap, “He’s so obvious, you’re so obvious. Just get together!”

But of course, it’s not that easy. Joe keeps his distance, so you keep yours out of respect for him. 

Securing the win to head to the Olympics meant preparing to go to Berlin. So, training and practice is never-ending. The stress is, too, and it bleeds into you and Bobby’s usually chill dynamic.

Everyone had already left the gymnasium except Joe one day after strenuous practice. He decided to piddle around for a little while. He had nowhere else to be, anyway. Joe sees you and Bobby getting into it by the boat and hangs back to eavesdrop.

“You have got to get your head in the game, Bobby! Stop worrying about everything else and keep your focus on the team.”

“It’s kind of hard when he’s making mistakes because he can’t stop thinking about you. It’s becoming a problem, and I think you need to fix it.”

Joe’s ears perk up at that. He couldn’t possibly be talking about him, right? That’s when you shove Bobby into the water. You wish he’d realize it isn’t that easy to solve.

Bobby resurfaces, pushing his hair from his eyes, “You bitch!” he squeaks in shock.

You start laughing like a maniac at his expression, and Joe is left wondering what is really going on between you and Bobby.

“What’s going on here?” Joe steps out, walks to the dock, and offers Bobby a hand from the water.

“Typical sibling banter,” you wave Joe off.

“Sibling?”

“Yeah,” you say, “I’m Bobby’s adopted sister.”

Joe’s face is one of shock. Bobby is behind the blonde, keeping him from throwing you into the water next. 

“Makes sense now,” Joe chuckles, blocking Bobby, “If I were you, I’d skedaddle.”

You make a run for the gymnasium quickly, Bobby trailing just a little behind. Joe shakes his head, relieved that you aren't Bobby’s girl. From then on, he paid more attention during practice now that he wasn’t plagued with thoughts of you and Bobby together.

The Olympics come quickly, and you’re nearly as nervous as Bobby. Berlin is an interesting sight, considering every surface is covered in Nazi propaganda. You can sense Bobby’s nervousness about it and try your best to ease him. Being someone of Jewish descent in a place like this was not easy. Don isn’t doing too well health-wise when you all arrive and skips out on the opening ceremony. You watch the USA walk with pride from the stands, your eyes on Joe the whole time.

You’re a ball of nerves during the qualifying race, but of course, that goes away when Bobby pulls his magic stunt, and the boys win yet again, making an Olympic record.  You’re beyond proud and can’t wait for how they compete for Gold.

The day comes for the final race, and when Bobby starts off delayed, your heart jumps out of your body. You’re on pins and needles the whole time, urging the boys to push. When the results of who won aren’t immediately apparent, you hold your breath and hope and pray, even, that your boys won. And sure enough, the USA takes the gold. You shoot up from your seat, cheering louder than anyone else around. When you finally are able to meet up with the team, you slam into Bobby full force in a bone-crushing hug.

When you pull away, Joe immediately approaches you and wraps his arms around you. 

“You did it!” you grin. 

“We did it,” Joe smiles, “But we couldn’t have done it without you and Bobby.”

You and Joe stare at each other momentarily, and Joe seems to be deep in thought about something. 

“Just kiss me, Joe,” you blurt, your arms still around his neck.

Joe throws caution to the wind and kisses you in front of the whole world, finally able to breathe with you pressed against him. The boys cheer, and Bobby stands there with his arms crossed, shaking his head with a smile. Finally, you have taken your leap of faith. But you were a stubborn Moch, after all.

[zablife]

i love dark stuff so i know your plot will be right up my alley. i was thinking of a female yandere reader who’s in a relationship with thomas? something with that couple dynamic would be amazing 🩷🩷 thank you for letting me request

I Would Die For You

Tommy x yandere wife reader

“There will be more after the job is done,” you promised, sliding a thick envelope across the table. Leaning back in the darkened booth to conceal yourself, you lit a cigarette and watched your companion closely. He hesitated, not over money, but loyalty. No one crossed the Shelbys and lived to tell the tale. However, something about the authority in your voice convinced him the protection you offered could be trusted.

The man looked over his shoulder before snatching the money up in his large hand. He placed it in his pocket in one swift movement as you arched an eyebrow in his direction.

“We’re in agreement then?” you asked impatiently.

“The Shelby's charity ball next week,” he grunted, repeating the information you’d provided earlier. 

“That’s right,” you smiled with satisfaction, pushing a celebratory glass of whisky into his hand. “I’ll ensure everyone is in place so you have a clear shot. You remember what to do with the gun?”

He nodded slowly before tossing back his drink. The burn of the alcohol barely took his mind off the thought of what might become of him if he failed. With slumped shoulders he pushed away from the table, lumbering toward the door of the pub.

You sat in silence, continuing to drink and ruminate over your detailed plan. Weeks of work organizing the catering and attending dress fittings had made you anxious for this important event, now only days away. It was all leading up to the moment of vengeance you'd dreamt of for years.

———————————-

As the gong sounded for dinner, you struggled to control your thundering heartbeat. It thumped painfully against your corseted chest while you waited for Polly's face to appear amongst the wide smiles of the other guests. When she finally swept past in a confection of pink taffeta and ostrich feathers, you gave a slight nod of your head.

With the signal given, you gingerly stepped to Tommy’s side, stealing his attention with a witty joke that made his eyes crinkle with laughter.

Bright blue eyes dancing with merriment, he never saw who fired the shot that came deafening close. There was only a look of horror as chaos broke out. Guests scattered to the far corners of the ballroom leaving him alone to witness your body fall to the floor in the slow motion of a nightmare.

Crumbling to the floor with you, he held you close. Tommy struggled to regulate his breathing, unsure how he would live if you died. "Call a fucking ambulance!" Tommy yelled over his shoulder. “And find out who did this. No one leaves!” he instructed his men angrily.

"Tommy," you whimpered, slumping against him weakly. The pain in your shoulder was like a searing hot poker lodged inside your muscle. It was far greater than anything you'd anticipated, but you reminded yourself why you had to endure the pain. Appealing to your husband you mumbled, "Help me."

"I won't let anything happen to you," Tommy promised, rubbing a thumb over your cheek. He continued whispering words of comfort as he willed you to fight the darkness threatening to descend upon you. The world outside stood still as he doted on you, eyes locked on yours for any sign of change.

As John approached with a pale face and trembling hands, Tommy knew it was more than the sight of your blood that upset him. “We found the shooter,” John announced in a shaky voice.

“Well?” Tommy barked impatiently, eager to return his attention to you. 

“The coppers say it was Polly,” John muttered in disbelief.

Your gloved hand slid down Tommy’s forearm as he turned away from you, pale irises darkening with fire. His jaw clenched in rage before he spat, “Tell them to take her away."

“Wh-what are you talking about?” John stuttered as his voice raised into a shout.

“She tried to kill my wife!” Tommy bellowed in return. With that John backed away, afraid to challenge his older brother.

Tommy adjusted you in his lap as he listened to John's footsteps fading into the background. Placing a kiss to your temple he added, “I’m so sorry she tried to hurt you, my darling.”

You shook your head. “She was aiming for you when I …” you stopped short, falling back into his strong arm.

Tommy pressed a cool hand to your forehead to revive you as he finished your thought. “You saved my life,” he said in hushed awe. He smoothed your hair away from your face as he looked at you with complete adoration. “Is this what you've been trying to tell me about a traitor in the family? I should have known."

Tears began to well in your eyes with relief that everything was falling into place. As they slid down your cheeks, you proclaimed, “I would die for you.”

"I know," Tommy said, wiping them away with his fingertips. "You're the only person I can trust," he concluded. He pulled you impossibly closer and you pressed your face into his tuxedo jacket to hide your triumphant smile.

-----------------

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[u6is]

"you cut your hair but you used to live a blonded life"

part 1

warnings: profanities, drug-use

— kylian mbappé x reader: angst

The lights of the club swirled in a dizzying array of colours, casting shadows that danced with the music.

It was a typical Friday night in Paris.

Your friends had claimed a table in the corner, your laughter bubbling up like a geyser of joy. You clinked your glasses together, the sound of ice cubes chiming like a celebratory bell. The whiskey burned a warm path down your throat, loosening the grip of the week's tension.

There was something unique about tonight.

Through the throngs of partygoers, the VIP corner, a bastion of opulence in stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the main floor. It was where the elite came to play, cordoned off by velvet ropes and stern-faced bouncers. Inside, the football players were celebrating their latest victory, and the air around them charged with excitement.

They were the kings of the city for the night, and everyone knew it.

The strobe lights painted the room in brief snapshots of reality, a visual symphony that only made the music feel more alive. You felt like a bird released from its cage as you moved through the crowd, your movements fluid and unrestrained. Your arms stretched out, as if you could touch the stars above.

You are as unbound as a bird in flight, weightless and free.

Kylian Mbappe, the soccer star everyone talked about, stood in the VIP section, his eyes scanning the dance floor. His restlessness was palpable, even from afar. He craved the pulse of the city's nightlife, the unscripted moments that made each night unique.

He slipped out from the VIP section, a playful grin tugging at his lips, and vanished into the sea of faces. The whispers grew louder as people recognized him, but he was already lost in the rhythm, just another soul seeking the essence of the night.

Suddenly, a flash of color caught his eye.

You, with your hair dancing in untamed delight, your eyes sparkling with the reflection of the disco lights.

He felt the music in your soul.

He approached you with the same swiftness he used on the field, weaving through the tightly packed bodies as if they were mere obstacles. As he reached you, the music dropped to a whisper in your ears as he leaned in to be heard over the din. You felt a rush of excitement as you recognized him, but you played it cool, not wanting to reveal the racing of your heart.

You two spoke, completely absorbed in the sound of each other's voice. His eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment it felt like the whole club had stopped moving.

It was an ordinary Friday night in Paris, yet that night held a quiet magic all its own.

It began so swiftly, your bond with him, like a spark that caught fire. What started with a simple meeting at a party spiralled into something more, something fast.

One moment, you were in the stands of a grand stadium, cheering for him, his invitation still ringing in your ears.

The next, you found yourself in the warmth of his arms, tucked away in the peace of his home, just you and him, lost in the stillness.

The bond grew stronger with each shared experience. In the quiet moments, you'd catch glimpses of his vulnerability, a side the world didn't get to see behind the glitz and glamour of his soccer career. He spoke of his love for the sport, his fears, his dreams, and the weight of expectations that sat upon his shoulders like a crown. You, in turn, revealed your passions, the dreams that kept you awake at night, and the fear of not making a difference. Together, you found solace in the understanding that everyone had their battles, even those who seemed invincible on the field.

"I want to dye my hair white."

You raised an eyebrow, amused by his spontaneity.

"White?" you repeated, trying to picture his iconic buzz cut in such a stark color. He nodded eagerly, a childlike excitement lighting up his face.

"Yeah, like the moon. It'll be perfect for the next game."

The following evening, he arrived at your small apartment, a stark contrast to the opulent mansions he was used to. He brought with him a box of hair dye and a determination that was contagious. You led him to the bathroom, which was a cozy space filled with the scent of your favorite lavender candles and the faint sound of the neighbor's television. As you mixed the solution, the anticipation grew. The air was thick with playful tension as he perched on the edge of a stool, you nestled between his legs.

You painted the dye onto his buzz cut with a gentle touch, each stroke a silent promise of support. He leaned back into your touch, his eyes closed, a contented smile playing on his lips as the conversation flowed like a river between you.

He spoke of the pressure to perform, the weight of the nation's hopes and dreams, and you shared your fear of being forgotten in the hustle of the city. The strokes grew slower as you both lost yourself in the comfort of the moment, the world outside fading away.

The laughter grew louder as you accidentally smudged some of the dye on his forehead, creating a streak that looked like a rebellious warrior's paint. He playfully grabbed the brush, threatening to return the favour. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals and the sweetness of your shared laughter as you danced around the bathroom, dodging his playful swipes.

Each kiss stolen felt like a victory, a secret shared only by the two of you in the sanctuary of your little apartment.

The game came and went, a blur of excitement and nerves as Kylian took to the field with his new white hair. The crowd erupted when he scored, the flashes from cameras creating a constellation around him.

Days later, the vacation invite came, a simple text message that felt like a ticket to the stars.

"I've got a week off, and I want to spend it with you," he wrote.

"How does a getaway to the Maldives sound?" Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of the tropical paradise.

A week in the sun with the man who had captured your heart, it was like a dream you hadn't even dared to dream.

You replied with an enthusiastic "Yes!" before you could overthink it, your thumbs dancing across the screen.

The Maldives was a world away from the cobblestone streets of Paris, a place of azure waters and endless skies, where the only thing that mattered was the sound of the waves and the warmth of the sun.

The private jet, the endless horizon outside the windows, it was all so surreal. Kylian sat beside you, his hand in yours, his thumb tracing circles on your skin as if to reassure you that this wasn't just a fleeting dream.

The resort was a symphony of bungalows floating on the water, a serene sanctuary that whispered secrets of tranquility to the soul. Each step closer to your destination felt like a step closer to paradise, a place where the chaos of the world was a distant memory.

As you stepped onto the pristine white sand of the Maldivian beach, the heat of the sun kissed your skin, and the scent of the ocean filled your lungs with a salty embrace.

Kylian looked at you, his eyes reflecting the same excitement and disbelief.

"This is all for us," he said, gesturing to the horizon. "A whole week of just us and the sea."

He took your hand, leading you to your private bungalow, the gentle sway of the wooden walkway beneath your feet. The moment you stepped inside, your breath was stolen by the sight of the vast expanse of turquoise water beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was adorned with tropical flowers, a romantic gesture that made your heart swell.

As the sun began its descent, painting the sky with strokes of pink and orange, you found yourself drawn to the beach. The warm sand felt like a lover's caress beneath your feet as you made your way to the water's edge. He followed, his eyes never leaving yours.

Without a word, you both waded into the warm embrace of the ocean. The waves kissed your legs, beckoning you further. He pulled you closer, his hands resting gently at your waist, the water rising to your chests.

Your foreheads met, the only barrier between the silent whispers of your thoughts. The horizon was a canvas of light, the setting sun a fiery ball of passion that mirrored the intensity of the moment. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore served as a gentle soundtrack, a natural symphony that drowned out the noise of the world. The salty kiss of the ocean spray mingled with the sweetness of his breath as you both floated in the embrace of the sea.

For the first time, he broke the silence with the words you'd hoped to hear.

"I love you."

They hung in the air, suspended in the warmth of the moment, echoing the rhythm of the waves. Your heart raced, a crescendo of emotions crashing over you like the tide. The world around you seemed to still, the very fabric of reality bending to the power of those three little words. You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of doubt, but found only the truth reflected back at you.

You felt the warmth of his love like the sun on your skin, a gentle reminder of the bond that had grown between you amidst the chaos of the city.

His confession was a soft melody in the symphony of the waves, a declaration that resonated through every fibre of your being.

"I love you, too, Kylian." You murmured your voice a tremulous whisper that seemed too small to hold the weight of your feelings.

His smile grew brighter, lighting up his entire face, as if the stars had descended to kiss him.

The days in the Maldives passed in a blur of bliss. Each sunrise painted a new picture of beauty, a backdrop for your burgeoning love. As you watched the sunsets melt into the horizon, leaving behind a canvas of pinks and purples that stained the sky. The nights were filled with stargazing, the constellations above whispering ancient secrets as you lay entwined in the soft embrace of the beach. The world had shrunk to the two of you, and everything else was just noise.

But eventually, the vacation had to end. You both returned to the city, to the bustling streets of Paris that seemed so much more alive with the vibrancy of your newfound love. Kylian's schedule picked up again, training sessions and games taking up the bulk of his days, but the nights remained yours.

His touch was a gentle reminder of the warmth of the sun you had left behind, his whispers in the dark a sweet symphony that lulled you to sleep. You watched him from the stands, his white hair a beacon of light as he ruled the soccer field, his every move a declaration of his love for the game.

The parties grew grander, the crowds more suffocating. His teammates' laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses became the soundtrack of your life together. Each night was a passionate dance, a celebration of victory and friendship that swirled around you like a tornado of glamour.

Kylian was adamant about keeping your relationship a secret.

His smile was for everyone, but his love was for you alone.

He'd sneak glances at you from across the room, his eyes speaking a language that no one else could understand. You felt like the keeper of a precious stone, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world, cherished only by the two of you.

Yet, as the weeks turned into months, the bars of the cage grew heavier. Each time you watched him leave for training or a game, a pang of sadness gripped your heart.

You were a spectator in his world, a silent cheerleader whose love could only be whispered in the shadows.

The night of the Ligue 1 final, the tension was palpable, a living creature that breathed in the air of the stadium. You watched from the VIP section, your heart racing with every step he took on the field. The crowd was a sea of noise, a symphony of hope and passion. And there, in the stands, were his parents, proud and stoic, watching their son play the game that had made him a star.

When the final whistle blew and his team emerged victorious, you felt the urge to celebrate with him, to share in the joy of his triumph. Yet, when you approached his parents to introduce yourself, Kylian's mother looked you up and down, her eyes cold and assessing, her smile forced. It was a look that spoke volumes without a single word.

You felt like an outsider, a mere shadow in the glaring spotlight of their family's success. Kylian was swept away in a tide of congratulations, leaving you to navigate the social current alone.

The sting of his mother's dismissal remained with you long after the game, a bitter taste that lingered like an unfortunate aftertaste. When you brought it up, Kylian was just apologetic but firm.

"They just need time," he'd say, his eyes full of hope and a hint of desperation. "They're protective."

Same thing happened, the excuses grew old, and the distance between you and your friends grew wider. Each time you suggested Kylian meet them, he'd find a way out. Training, games, press conferences, and the endless string of responsibilities that came with his stardom. The walls of his world grew higher, and you found yourself feeling like you were the only one making sacrifices.

The quiet moments of your solitude grew into a crescendo of doubt.

Was this really what you wanted? To be the hidden lover of a man whose every move was public property?

The silence in the car was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city outside. Kylian's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, his jaw clenched in a way that spoke of his own internal war. You knew he felt it too, the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air like a thick fog.

"You never told them, did you?" you finally said, your voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "You never told your parents about us." The anger simmered just below the surface, a pot ready to boil over at any moment. Kylian's grip on the steering wheel tightened, but he didn't look at you.

He had, in fact, spoken of you to his parents. But his mother, with a dismissive shrug, simply urged him to stay focused on his game, reminding him of all they had sacrificed for his success. To her, your bond was fleeting, a mere ripple in the tide of his life—nothing more than a momentary distraction.

"What does it matter?" he replied, his voice gruff with frustration. "They'll come around."

You couldn't hold it in anymore. "What matters is that I'm not some secret you hide from the world! It's like I don't even exist outside of these stolen moments." The words hung in the air, sharp and accusatory.

He sighed heavily, his eyes never leaving the road. "You know it's not like that."

But you didn't know. You felt like a shadow in his life, a secret to be kept hidden from the glaring lights of the world. The anger grew hotter, a fire in your chest that threatened to consume you. "Then tell me what it's like," you demanded. "Make me understand why I can't be a part of your fucking life without hiding!"

Kylian's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and his breathing was shallow.

"I am at the peak of my career!"

His voice was sharp, frustration cutting through every word. "I told you about this whole privacy thing," he snapped, his eyes narrowing. "And you agreed! You said you were fucking fine with it!" The tension in the air was almost tangible, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

"Not with your parents, at least!" you shot back, your voice rising as anger flared within you. The words left your lips before you could stop them, sharp and unyielding, matching the tension that filled the car. You stood your ground, meeting his fiery gaze, unwilling to back down from the storm brewing between you.

His voice rose, laced with frustration he couldn’t contain. "God, you’re so damn clingy sometimes," he snapped, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "I can’t just drop everything for you, alright? I have a career to think about—I don’t need you acting like a stupid bitch about it."

"Stupid what?" you interrupted, your voice rising as you turned to him, disbelief flashing in your eyes.

"Yeah, you heard me," he shot back without thinking, his frustration spilling over. "Stupid ass bitch."

Your breath caught, his words hitting harder than anything he’d ever said to you before. "Stop the car," you said, your voice shaking with anger.

"Stop the car!"

"Yeah, I’ll stop the fucking car!" he barked, slamming on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt by the side of the road.

Without hesitation, you flung the door open and stepped out into the cold night air, slamming it shut behind you. The sound echoed, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. He sat there, gripping the steering wheel, his heart sinking as the weight of his words crashed down on him.

Realization hit like a tidal wave, and he threw the car into drive, creeping slowly to match your pace as you stormed down the street.

He kept the car rolling beside you. “You’re really gonna walk out on the car like that?"

You didn’t stop, didn’t even look at him. “Fuck you!” you shouted, your voice trembling with anger and hurt.

“Come on, babe,” he called out, his voice softer now, laced with regret. “I can’t leave you like this. Let me take you home.”

You stopped in your tracks, turned to face him, your eyes blazing. “Leave me the fuck alone!” you screamed, each word sharp and cutting. “I don’t wanna see you anymore!”

He stopped the car, watching helplessly as you walked away into the dark, your words echoing in his mind. He sat there, paralyzed by regret, knowing he might’ve just lost the one person who truly mattered.

For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

The darkness wrapped around you like a shroud, the only light the flicker of the streetlamp outside your window, casting shadows on the walls like a silent movie of your tumultuous thoughts. His words echoed through the empty space, a symphony of doubt and anger that seemed to grow louder with each passing moment. How could he treat you like this?

The realization hit you like a cold shower.

The man who swept you away under the dance floor's glow,

Who held you close in quiet rooms, where whispers grow,

Who heard your first "I love you" by the Maldives’ gentle tide,

Was absent in the leathered luxury where his ego would abide.

Now, stats and numbers steal his tongue, your dreams left unsaid, a stranger in the driver's seat, where your heart once led.

Kylian had become a star, and in doing so, had forgotten the gravity of the simple moments that had brought you together.

The quiet moments of shared laughter had been drowned out by the roar of the stadium, and the gentle strokes of his hand had been replaced by the firm grip of his ambition.

Kylian blamed himself. He let his anger consume him, a wildfire burning through reason and restraint. When he finally told his mother about you, he hoped for understanding, maybe even support. Instead, her words cut deep, embedding themselves in his mind like code in a machine. From that moment, he felt programmed to meet her expectations.

Be the best, Kylian.

Her voice echoed endlessly in his head. It wasn’t a choice anymore; it was his identity, the role he was born to play. The weight of their pride, the legacy, bore down on him, suffocating his own desires.

He wasn’t just Kylian; he was their Kylian, the greatest thing they had ever created, and he couldn’t let them down.

But in trying to be perfect for them, he wondered if he was losing the parts of himself that mattered most. The parts that belonged to you.

Weeks turned into months, and the silence between you and Kylian grew louder. The only bridge between you now was his messages, desperate and pleading.

"I’m sorry, baby. Can we talk? Please?"

Your replies were short, distant.

"I can’t. I’m busy."

Winning Ligue 1, another trophy to add to his collection. But the victory was hollow.

The nights were the worst—endless hours spent scrolling through your Instagram. There you were, smiling again, surrounded by friends. That radiant face he had first seen in the club, now only a memory behind a screen. Not in his arms. Not his anymore.

"I’ll never mess up again, I swear. Just… call me."

Your reply came, cold and final.

"We’re over. Stop contacting me."

His thumb hovered over the screen, disbelief washing over him. He dialed your number, hands trembling, but each ring dragged into silence. No answer.

"Did you block me!?" he typed, panic seeping into his words.

Still nothing.

"Answer me!"

But his words only reached the empty void of delivered.

That’s when the rage bubbled to the surface. His fists clenched as the realization struck like a thunderbolt—you were gone. Truly gone. The medals and trophies that lined his shelves seemed to mock him now. All lost in the suffocating shadow of his parents’ expectations.

Kylian slammed the phone onto his desk with force, the ache in his chest unbearable. No victory could fill the void you left behind.

And as your presence faded further into the past, he realized the cost of trying to be perfect. It was too high. He had lost you. Forever.

The party lights flickered, reflecting Kylian’s distorted thoughts as he drove recklessly through the streets. Fueled by anger and a dangerous cocktail of drugs, his mind spiraled into chaos. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see past the image burned into his mind—you, smiling in someone else’s arms.

While scrolling through your friend’s Instagram story, he spotted you with a man, his arm draped casually over your shoulders, and you were smiling.

That picture had pushed him over the edge, and now, nothing else mattered.

Parking haphazardly outside the party, he stormed in, his eyes darting frantically through the crowd. And then he saw you—ascending the stairs with the man from the photo. His fists clenched, his pulse pounding as he watched from the shadows. When you reappeared alone, heading to the bar, he seized his chance.

He approached swiftly, his grip firm on your arm.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped, irritation clear in your voice.

“I’m trying to talk to you, but you blocked me. Why would you do that?” His words were sharp, almost desperate.

You yanked your arm free. “I blocked you because we’re done, Kylian. There’s nothing to talk about.”

But he didn’t back down. “Did you fuck him?” His tone was cold, accusatory.

“What?” You stared at him, stunned.

“You heard me. That guy upstairs. Did you fuck him?”

The confusion on your face deepened. “Who—Alex? Are you serious? He’s one of my best friends. He’s gay.”

“That’s bullshit.” His voice rose, disbelief clouding his judgment.

“It’s not! And the drinks I was getting? They’re for my friends. You’d know that if you ever bothered to ask or get to know them!” Your frustration boiled over.

“You only care about yourself!” you added, your voice trembling.

“I only care about myself?” His anger flared, but you didn’t wait for his retort. Turning on your heel, you started to walk away.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” he growled, grabbing your arm again, pulling you into an empty room.

“Let go of me!” you shouted, your voice breaking.

Kylian’s grip loosened for a moment, his expression flickering between fury and regret. “Baby, just listen to me. Please,” he pleaded, his hands shifting to your shoulders.

“I’ll tell my parents. I’ll tell my friends. I’ll tell the world. I don’t care. Just come back to me.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “No,” you sobbed. “I can’t. Look at you!”

You saw it in his eyes—bloodshot, clouded, a haze of intoxication stealing the clarity they once held.

"You think I want a life with you? Just look at yourself!" Tears streamed down your face as your voice cracked with emotion.

“What do you mean, look at me?” His anger reignited, his voice sharp and cutting. “I’m here, aren’t I? I'm here for you, bitch."

Your gaze met his, hollow and disbelieving. “Stop calling me that!"

His anger surged again, and before he could stop himself, words he didn’t mean escaped his lips.

“You’re such a selfish bitch!”

Your slap echoed through the room, sharp and startling. You didn’t wait for his reaction; you pulled away, trembling, your tears blurring your vision.

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” you choked, your voice filled with fear and heartbreak.

Something shifted in Kylian’s eyes then—realization, maybe. His hands fell to his sides, his body frozen in place as you stepped back, wiping the tears from your face.

As you walked away, his chest felt hollow, his world unravelling. As the drug coursed through his veins, it claimed his body in a haze of surrender, weaving a spell that blurred the line between control and chaos.

He watched you disappear into the crowd, the weight of his actions crashing down on him. For the first time, he saw it clearly—you weren’t just leaving. You were gone. And it was entirely his fault.

—

Years passed, but time never dulled the weight of his regret.

When you left, he stripped himself of the colors you gave him. The bright white streaks that once danced through his hair—your touch, your light—faded like the ghost of a dream. He dyed it back to black, the shade of before, as if erasing every trace of you could silence the ache.

Kylian had it all—his name immortalized in football, his dream club in Madrid awaiting his arrival. Yet, in the silence of his nights, the triumphs felt hollow.

Sometimes, when the ache grew unbearable, he’d find himself scrolling through your Instagram. There you were, in Germany now—living the dream you used to whisper to him about, the life he should’ve supported. A home and a man who held you the way he never could. A picture-perfect, framed in a happiness he no longer dared to imagine for himself.

But it was the Maldives photo that truly broke him. It stayed tucked away, a relic of the love he lost. In it, you stared straight at him, your eyes warm and alive, as if seeing straight into his soul. He could barely look at it without choking on the memory of the first “I love you” whispered under that endless sky.

On the loneliest nights, when the roar of the crowd faded and his medals gleamed like mocking ghosts, he clutched that photo and prayed.

Not for forgiveness—he didn’t deserve that—but for you. For your happiness.

And maybe, just maybe, for you to haunt him.

"Come out and haunt me."

Lying alone in his cold, empty room, he whispered those same words into the void, hoping they might somehow reach you.

Haunt him with the sound of your laughter. With the light in your eyes. With the love he destroyed but never stopped yearning for.

But they didn’t. They never would. Because you were gone, and he was alone.

Because even in the echo of his greatest victories, it was your absence that screamed the loudest. And he knew—he would carry that hollow ache, that haunting memory of you, for the rest of his days.

this fic is deeply inspired by Waves (2019), directed by Trey Edward Shults.

the film brings me a sense of comfort, and the inspiration to write this story about kylian is exactly what i needed 😣

part 2

[koffeesfancy]

The Tutor Ch. 1 | Letitia x Reader

Summary: You are a broke graduate student hustling through college when you unexpectedly land a job tutoring an actress in your native language—a language you've nearly forgotten. Instead of teaching, you find yourself becoming the student in this unexpected journey. As you fall in love for the first time, you begin to uncover profound truths about yourself and the world around you that you never knew existed.

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Romance, fluff, slow-burn, comedy

Word Count: 2731

A/N: Feedback is always appreciated! If anyone wants to be added to my taglist, the link is in the pinned post on my page Taglist: @lyfeofbilly @prettymrswright

To be fair, you would—and almost had—done just about anything for money. Seriously, your resume of odd jobs looked like a carnival sideshow gone wrong. Washing cars? Check. Bagging groceries? Double check. Babysitting? Let's just say those kids still have flashbacks. Braiding hair? Sure, if they wanted a lopsided mess. Writing reports for books you never read? CliffNotes are your best friend. Music lessons for instruments you didn’t play? “Fake it 'til you make it” was your anthem.

Most of these ventures ended in irate customers hurling strong words at you, and you narrowly dodging potential assault. But hey, $40 is $40. And right now, you needed a whole bunch of those $40s, like, yesterday.

You’d printed and shared so many fliers for so many different gigs that you were like a human Rubik's Cube, colorful but often hopelessly scrambled. By now, you had no idea what the person on the other side of the phone was even talking about.

"So, is there an office address for this service?" the woman on the other end of the line asked, her voice dripping with the enthusiasm of someone waiting at the DMV.

After a thoughtful pause that was less "thoughtful" and more "panicked rummaging through mental chaos," you carefully responded, "Yes, you can trust that I have preserved a location most appropriate for our..." you leaned forward as if to coax the words out of her.

"This is the foreign language tutor, correct?" she quipped. You bit your lip to contain your celebratory noises, fighting back the urge to scream, "Jackpot!"

"Oh yes, ma'am, that is me. Totally, so yep... I do lessons at the University library or I can travel—with reimbursement included, of course," you added, trying to sound as professional as a used car salesman handing off a lemon.

She hummed thoughtfully as you spoke. "That will be $40 an hour for the first four hours and $35 afterward when you buy multiple sessions at once."

"Oh really? That's great, the flier said $60. Are you free this Saturday?" You swallowed a profanity at the realization you’d lost out on some money and pushed through with the booking. Inside, you were both cursing your past self and doing a victory dance. A gig's a gig, after all.

So there you were, the jack-of-all-trades, master of none, and not above doing something strange for some change. Because in your world, $40 could buy a lot of things—like loud shoes to wear indoors for your neighbor that liked to poke at the ceiling with a broom when you coughed or enough of the fancy Belgian chocolate you liked to eat yourself into a small coma. A lot of things...

On Saturday, you ventured out to the more upscale part of town. It was the kind of place that looked like it had springed straight out of a magazine. Each building practically whispered, "My mortgage could feed a small country."

You'd been wired enough money for two classes a week for two months, plus bus fare, which was a small victory in your book. As you stepped off the bus and onto the manicured sidewalk, you couldn't help but feel a mix of bewilderment and bitterness at the sheer luxury around you.

Looking around, you saw freshly washed windows, pristine sidewalks, and not a single piece of trash in sight. A roofless sports car purred by, driven by a guy who looked like he'd never known a day of financial stress in his life.

"Must be tough being a professional trust fund manager," you muttered under your breath, eyeing the back of the vehicle.

An impeccably dressed woman with a tiny, overly groomed dog strolled past you. "Dog Instagram influencer, probably," you thought, rolling your eyes at the absurdity.

Further down the street, a couple emerged from a boutique, laughing as they juggled bags from what must’ve been high-end stores. "Ah yes, professional yoga mat testers," you mused sarcastically. "Or maybe artisanal kombucha consultants."

As you walked a few blocks deeper into the neighborhood, you approached the address sent to you for work. It was a huge historical brownstone that filled you with intimidation. You couldn't help but marvel at the ornate door and the brass knocker shaped like a lion's head. "Sure, why not? Lion-head knockers. Probably enough to pay off student loans for my entire graduating class," you snarked internally.

Ringing the doorbell, you waited, feeling like an imposter in your own shoes. The door opened to reveal a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle blog, all polished and perfect. She was of a medium height, but her long, toned legs made her seem modelesque. The woman was a dark brown color and had a chicly shaved head partially obscured by a multi print silk scarf. She wore an expensive looking linen short set and minimalistic gold jewelry.

“Welcome! You must be the tutor,” she greeted you warmly. “Come on in.” She waved her thin hands to gesture inside of her home, her dark pink lips widening to reveal a set of perfect white teeth. You feigned politeness while bitterly thinking to yourself about the iniquity of someone being both so rich and so attractive while people like you were left with flabby arms, hairy toe knuckles, and crippling debt. 

Stepping into the foyer, you tried not to gawk at the marble floors and grand staircase. "Just your average entryway," you thought wryly. "Nothing says ‘welcome’ like a ceramic bust."

You followed her to a spacious study, filled with leather-bound books and more mahogany than you thought existed in the world. Sitting down, you mentally prepared for your first lesson, hoping your makeshift knowledge of the language would hold up.

In the days leading up to this tutoring gig, you thought you were being proactive. After all, you couldn't just waltz into a foreign language lesson without a clue, could you? So, you did what any desperate person would do: WhatsApp video call your cringey cousin from back home.

Your cousin was the kind of guy who thinks he's fluent in English because he once binge-watched a season of "Friends" with subtitles on. His grasp of English and your grasp of your family’s native language was about as solid as a Jenga tower in a hurricane. But hey, beggars can't be choosers.

The conversation was a comedy of errors from the get-go. You tried to explain what you needed help with, but every sentence he uttered was a linguistic train wreck. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, but with words.

"I need help. For teach… uh… English… speak person. You speak... uh... En-guh-lish, yes?" you attempted, your own language suffering under the weight of your desperation.

"Ah, English! Yes, yes! I know Eng-guh-lish!" he exclaimed triumphantly, his confidence only slightly overshadowed by the fact that he couldn't pronounce the word correctly.

What followed was a painful exchange of broken sentences, awkward pauses, and a lot of hand gestures that made you question whether you were communicating in semaphore or a spoken language.

By the time you hung up, you felt like you knew even less than before. If anything, you'd regressed linguistically. Welp, time to wing it, you thought grimly, resigning yourself to the fact that this tutoring job was going to be a wild ride. Who needs language proficiency when you have sheer determination and a healthy dose of delusion, right?

The woman fluttered around the study murmuring to herself until she retrieved a loose stack of papers from a bag. 

“A-ha!” she chimed, turning to wave the papers at you with that same smile. She sauntered over and to your surprise, sat right next to you on the leather sofa instead of across the coffee table at one of the matching armchairs.

Up close, you noticed she had the slightest dimple in the lower left corner of her mouth and eyes that naturally set low in an effortlessly sultry gaze. There was something very classic and timeless about her looks. Like perhaps you had seen lots of women like her in commercials or in those huge luxury clothing brand displays at Macy’s.  

She placed the papers on the table before turning and facing directly towards you, extending a thin, manicured hand. “Hi, I’m Letitia,” she spoke. Her voice was soft, a bit smokey, and had a bit of an encapsulating feel.

You shook her hand and formally introduced yourself as well. “I suppose you spoke with my manager Lashana on the phone about my goals. I have a casting audition in about 2 months and think having some exposure to the language beforehand could get me a leg up, y’know? Uh… these are just some things she sent for you to sign…” she said, running off into a murmur as she handed the stack of papers to you with a fountain pen. As she moved around you caught a whiff of her dark, woody perfume. It smelled more like an expensive men’s cologne. 

For a moment you scoured your brain for any information you knew about this Letitia. You thought you might have heard Lashana mention the actress thing on the phone, but that was while you were on your other $40 gig moonlighting as an expert dog groomer. She interrupted when you were braiding the neighbor’s poodle- Fifi’s cornrows required utmost concentration so Lashana's words went in one ear and out of the other.  

You signed the papers with a flourish, then handed them back to Letitia, raising an eyebrow as you joked, “So, what exactly did I just sign away? My soul? Firstborn child?”

To your surprise, Letitia burst into laughter, a genuine, hearty sound that filled the room. It caught you off guard, and you couldn't help but notice how her whole face lit up when she laughed. Her dimple deepened, and her eyes crinkled at the corners, giving her an adorable, almost childlike quality. At that moment, she seemed less like a polished actress and more like a regular person who didn't care about looking perfect.

“You're hilarious!” she said, still chuckling as she tucked the papers back into her bag. “I think this is going to be a lot more fun than I expected.”

You felt a flush creep up your cheeks at the compliment. “Thanks,” you said, trying to play it cool. “I aim to please.”

Letitia leaned back on the sofa, her gaze curious and open. “So, tell me about yourself. How did you end up doing... well, this?”

You shrugged, deciding to be honest. “Oh, you know, just trying to make a living. I’ve done a bit of everything. Today, I’m a language tutor. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe I’ll be wrangling llamas at a petting zoo.”

She laughed again, a light, musical sound that made you smile. “I admire that,” she said. “It takes a lot of guts to do what you do.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly glamorous,” you replied, though you couldn’t help but feel a little humble amidst the fancy room. “But it keeps things interesting.”

Letitia nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. I’ve had my share of odd jobs too. Before acting, I was a waitress, a dog walker- I even dressed up as Minnie Mouse at kids’ parties once.”

You tried to imagine her in a pink polka dot dress with gloves and big, round ears, and the mental image made you laugh. “Now that I’d like to see.”

She grinned, a twinkle in her eye. “Maybe if you teach me this language, I’ll show you some of my old mouse tricks.”

“Deal,” you said, feeling more relaxed than you had all day. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

As you began the lesson, you realized that maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad after all. Letitia’s enthusiasm was infectious, and her genuine interest in getting to know you made you feel like, for once, you weren’t just a means to an end. Maybe this gig would be a turning point—something more than just another $40 in your pocket. 

The lesson flew by in a blur of laughter, stumbles over pronunciation, and unexpected moments of connection. Before you knew it, the clock was signaling the end of your session. Letitia gathered her things, still giggling over a joke you'd made about mispronouncing a word in a way that turned it into something hilariously inappropriate.

As she walked you to the door, both of you were still caught up in the infectious energy of the lesson. “I can’t believe we spent half the time laughing,” Letitia said, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Next time I’ll have to invoice you my rate for standup as well,” you replied, grinning. 

Both of you stopped, laughter trailing off as you locked eyes, the air thick with an unspoken connection. You extended your hand for a handshake just as Letitia leaned in for a hug, and your misplaced hand awkwardly jabbed her ribs. As she toppled forward, her pillowy lips connected with your forehead in a soft, accidental kiss that sent shivers down your spine.

Time seemed to stand still. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you in that moment. Her eyes widened in surprise, the rich depths of her gaze reflecting your own astonishment. You could feel the warmth spreading across your cheeks, your face burning with a mix of embarrassment and something more profound, something that made your heart race wildly in your chest.

Her breath, soft and warm, lingered against your skin, and for a heartbeat, everything else faded away. The delicate scent of her woody perfume enveloped you, creating an intoxicating haze that made you dizzy with longing. Her nearness, the accidental intimacy, sent a thrill through you, a sensation both terrifying and exhilarating.

The spell was broken by the sudden roar of a fast car zooming by outside, yanking both of you back to the present. The world rushed back in, loud and intrusive, yet you remained rooted in that brief, unforgettable moment.

Letitia pulled back slightly, her own cheeks tinged with a rosy hue. She laughed nervously, a melodic sound that made your heart skip a beat. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” she stammered, her voice a soft murmur of embarrassment and amusement.

“No, no, it’s fine!” you stuttered as she also spoke some unintelligible babble, the awkwardness dissipating into a shared chuckle. “That was... unexpected,” Letitia added, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Yeah, totally,” you agreed, trying to steady your racing heart. “Guess we need to work on our goodbye coordination as well.”

“Absolutely,” she smiled, a dazzling expression that made your knees weak. As she opened the door, the moment lingered in the air between you, a fragile, beautiful thing.

“Thanks again for today. I’m really looking forward to our next lesson,” she said softly, her voice like a caress.

“Me too,” you replied, your cracking voice barely above a whisper, your heart pounding. “See you next time!”

As you walked away, the memory of her accidental kiss lingered, a tender echo that made your pulse quicken and your thoughts spin. It was a moment you knew you would replay over and over, a small, perfect touch that left you breathless with anticipation for something- anything.

You mindlessly followed the sidewalk, feeling a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration. As you boarded the bus, you couldn’t stop thinking about that moment. Your heart was racing, and every time you closed your eyes, you could see Letitia’s face, the surprise and humor in her eyes.

You tried to distract yourself with phone games, but your fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. Before you knew it, you were googling Letitia’s name, falling down a rabbit hole of biographies, interviews, and reviews of her films. Each article and video only added to the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in your head.

Engrossed in reading about her, you completely missed your stop. When you finally looked up and realized how far you’d gone, you cursed under your breath, quickly pressing the button to signal the next stop.

As you walked the extra blocks home, you couldn’t shake the mixture of embarrassment and excitement from your mind. The day had taken a completely unexpected turn, and you knew it was going to be all you could think about until your next lesson with Letitia.

[sveanaxxremis]

Jewel of the East P.1

Amidst the dense, foreboding mists that clings to the tangled depths of the Golemore Jungle, a haunting cry pierced the humid air. The sound echoing off the slippery stones and moss-covered trees, a cry that carried with it the weight of destiny. Here, in this shadowed realm where the sun's feeble rays fought to penetrate the thick canopy, the birth of a newborn brought forth a surge of emotions among the enigmatic Akuvik tribe. But unlike the jubilant cheers and celebratory whistles that typically would fill the air upon such occasions, these cries bore the somber timbre of a funeral dirge. The matriarch had given birth to a daughter, but by the cruelest strings of fate the daughter had been born with the "affliction. In the eyes of the healers, her pallor was akin to the blanched complexion often seen among the dying, her little tuft of hair the color of dried blood.

The Akuvik people, had learned to thrive within the gloomy embrace of the jungle, and had become as much a part of its shadowy landscape as the trees themselves. With skin kissed by shadows and hair resembling the rich, loamy earth beneath their feet, they blended seamlessly into their environment. The men of the Akuvik, like shadowy sentinels, lived solitary lives within the deep shadows of the trees within their territory, keeping watch over the village and lands. The village women wore their long, earthy tresses adorned with braids and feathers from the jungle's avian denizens and helped to clear away fallen trees and restore the growth of the underbrush. Their eyes mirrored the deep, verdant greens of the lush foliage that enveloped them. So, when the matriarch brought forth an afflicted daughter, with hair that shone like burning embers and eyes as pale as the Mist’s embrace, there was a collective gasp and murmuring among the tribe's healers. Her unblemished skin bore speckles of her kin's dark hue, creating a mesmerizing tapestry of contrasting tones across her cheeks, shoulders, and limbs. Yet, it was this wood-cursed babe who would unwittingly become the harbinger of the jungle's wrath.

Amidst the cries and lamentations that ensued, panic rippled through the village. Women hurriedly gathered the kits and ventured beyond the safety of their village wards, sending whistles and whoops into the wind, signals that would reach the wood-warders, alerting them of the evacuating village. Only the matriarch's two handmaidens would remain at her side, tending to the newborn as they cleaned and cared for her exhausted queen.

As days turned to weeks, the village lay in an eerie silence, its inhabitants lurking within the shadows like specters, their fear of the fiery haired babe palpable. During this time, sparing only fleeting glances at the child through the thick, reedy bars, a heavy sadness would descend upon her heart. How cruel fate could be, she thought, that her first-born child would be a wood-cursed daughter. In the early morning one day, she gazed into the bright, unsettling pale eyes of her child, who cooed and fidgeted on her fur blanket. Jade eyes blinked as they stared outwardly, unfocused but catching glimpses of shadows and shapes. Kneeling before the bassinet, the matriarch stroked the pudgy cheek of her cursed daughter, lost in her own thoughts.

"Would you have become a great warrior like me? Or perhaps a healer, like my mother before me? Would curiosity have led you away from the jungle?" The matriarch whispered, wrestling with the what ifs that plagued her mind. In her two and a half centuries of life, there had never been an afflicted child born within their shadowed home. It had been nothing more than a distant legend among her people for centuries. Then, she remembered the words of the elder priestess—a blind and cantankerous seer whose prophecies always came to pass.

"An afflicted child shall be born, a girl of unprecedented strength. A girl whose very existence would make even the gods tremble, for her heart's strength alone would be unmatched. She would walk over the bodies of loved ones, strangers, the old, and the weak, and darkness and fire would follow in her wake...and she...she shall bring salvation upon this star and usher in a new era." The words echoed in her mind, her long ears drooping, a signal of her distress. She reached for her daughter, who resisted with flailing arms. Cradling the child, the mother held her close, pressing her lips to the soft hair and hummed quietly, fighting back tears.

"Eira," the matriarch whispered, "your name shall be Eira." To name an afflicted child was forbidden, as a name was the one true possession that could never be taken away. Belongings, bodies, and even life itself were all subject to theft or loss. But a name, that was eternal and in the weeks that followed, she whispered her daughter's name in private, ensuring that when the Wood claimed her, it would have something to call her.

Since the birth of the babe a full moon would pass when the time came for the matriarch's journey into the jungle. She was relieved to find that her daughter had proven resilient enough to endure the trek to the place where she would be left. The matriarch was draped in ceremonial mourning attire as she cradled her slumbering child, who had been given a concoction of milk and herbs to ensure a deep, silent slumber.

After three nights of travel, far beyond any suitable location to leave the child, the grief-stricken mother spotted a caravan on the jungle's edge. Ignoring the pleas of her companions, she waited until the steel-clad soldiers settled for the night. When the moment presented itself, she moved in such a way that she barely rustled the leaves of the jungle foliage and placed her slumbering child within a nook between secured barrels and crates. She covered the infant with furs, and gently pressed her lips to her daughter's chubby, little fingers before retreating. Her whispered words, carried on the wind, wished for the Wood's protection upon her beloved Eira. Moving away as silently as she had arrived, she caught the stretching shadow of a man. In that moment, where time seemed to stop, her eyes met the lone, silver eye of his ever-watchful gaze. With a solemn nod he watched as she stepped back into the jungle's embrace.

It would be just four moons after the matriarch had entrusted her wood-cursed child to the caravan of steel-clad soldiers that a merciless plague would descend upon the savage and ruthless Akuvik tribe. The illness struck first as fevers and coughs in the elders, but as time wore on and the women and kits returned to the village, those afflicted by this mysterious ailment began to bleed from their mouths and yellow in the eyes. Violent convulsions wracked their bodies, forcing them into delirium before the inevitable, agonizing death claimed them. Word spread that the matriarch had disobeyed tradition, leaving the child with the steel-clad men who dominated the southern coast. Those who survived believed their suffering to be the Wood's punishment for withholding what was rightfully its own. In the end, the matriarch was beheaded by her own kin for defying the Green Word and the Wood's wishes, and that was what would end the Akuvik tribe.

*****

"What of the mother? Surely you saw her?" The woman asked, her lilac eyes peering out from beneath the tangerine-colored shawl, a mesmerizing gaze fixated on the suckling babe.

"The mother... she was as dark, as if a shadow had come to life, her eyes the hue of creeping jungle moss. We did not exchange words; she merely placed the child amongst the crates, whispering something before retreating. Our eyes met for but a moment, and then..." The burly imperial soldier's voice trailed off, uncertainty hanging in the air stiffly.

"She is Akuvik, but this child's pallor..." The nursing woman's voice trailed off; her words caught in her throat as she once again gazed down at the child. Her breath hitched as she met the babe's pale jade eyes. As slender fingers brushed against the baby's cheek, her vision was suddenly engulfed by a blinding light, and she found herself standing in a vast, verdant field. Towering white flowers swayed in a gentle breeze; the sun's warming glow bathed the landscape in its delicate light. Before her knelt, a towering woman clad in black, hair a sea of fiery locks. Her eyes were a delicate, glowing, jade green. A simple black mask rested against her chest, a mysterious golden marking glinting in the sun's warm glow. The woman's eyes filled with a curious mirth as her pale gaze flicked toward the woman's leporine ears, bringing forth the bubbling of a faint chuckle.

When the red-haired woman spoke, her voice resonated like the deep rumblings of the earth—ancient, powerful, yet gentle like a summer rain. "She will face a myriad of tribulations in the years to come, bearing witness to the world's most profound trials. A steadfast beacon of hope, an unwavering force. Her heart, once tender, will evolve into enduring stone, and her smile, once bright, will exude the grace of a humble maiden. She will ignite and quell wars, disassemble nations only to earnestly rebuild them, and ultimately, witness the world's humbling descent beneath her feet." The woman's lips curved upward in a delicate smile, but the warmth that should have filled her jade, lambent eyes was absent. Instead, her eyes were distant, flickering like a candle in the wind yet the shadow cast was one of doleful melancholy.

"No!" The vieran woman's voice cracked with commanding desperation, yanking the lambent eyed woman from her harrowing thoughts. "This child will not endure such suffering!" The nursing woman's voice trembled, clutching the babe suffocatingly close to her chest. She felt her eyes begin to sting as tears threatened to fall. "She's already been cast aside once; we will ensure she is cherished and cared for!" The jade-eyed woman offered her a dejected smile. The upturn of her full lips failing to reach her eyes.

She gently stroked one of the baby's small, velvety ears, her head tilting to the side as if contemplating various options. Her shoulders seemed to slump as if the weight of her unspoken grief was becoming unbearable. "She will be the flowers. She will also be the rain. She is the beauty of day. She is the nights full of pain." The despondent smile faded into an unreadable mask. "Her path is set, for if it is not, she who can do it, then there is no other." The nursing woman's gaze narrowed, and she sneered at the fiery-haired woman.

"And which of the twelve are you to decide that this child will suffer so? Are you so cruel a god that you would allow it?" Jade eyes widened at the sudden scorn from the woman, before the larger woman burst into laughter—a sound reminiscent of falling rain, soft yet lugubrious. She leaned in close, and as the nursing woman met her glowing eyes, her vision once again filled with blinding light.

"The child is me..." The woman's final words echoed in her mind as a final vision washed over her—a vision of the heavens falling and a city in ruins, bodies clad in the same black robes strewn about, terrifying creatures lurking within the shadows. Monstrous roars and terrified screams filled the smoky air. The scene vanished with a blink, and her purple gaze returned to the soldier before her—Marcellus quo Atronius, a weathered man of fifty-two winters, his leather-like skin bearing the marks of time and sun, his solitary silvery eye scanning the woman's youthful face. The nursing woman's eyes traced the deep lines on his once-pale skin, now tanned from years spent in the sun-drenched lands of Valnain and Dalmasca Inferior. She noted his short, silvery hair, which caught the dim room's light.

"What did you see, Cifra?" The grizzled man's voice rumbled like distant thunder. Cifra blinked and looked down at the content babe in her arms, then nodded, answering the man's question. She was a local beauty with rich, nutmeg-colored skin and eyes like fresh lilacs, Cifra's age was a mystery. She appeared no older than twenty summers, but she had always been part of the masses, long before the imperial occupation of Valnain.

"She is to be this star's beacon of hope." Despite the wondrous words, Cifra's tone betrayed doubt, as if she could not quite believe them herself. Her unfocused eyes roamed to a loose button clinging to the soldier's tabard. With furrowed brows, her expression contorted as if she were suddenly in pain, and her choked voice croaked the dispiriting phrase. "She will be the flowers. She will also be the rain. She is the beauty of day. She is the nights full of pain…" A tear traced down her cheek, and her gaze sharpened as she stared back at the soldier, her mouth set in a thin line.

"Cifra, what is—" Marcellus was abruptly cut off by the woman.

"Celli, you must keep her safe. You must give her all the love you can. Teach her what it means to be loved and to love." Cifra shifted the child, burping her before gently handing her back.

"Cifra, I cannot care for her just yet. She is too young, and I have no means to feed her... If Villi were alive, I..." He trailed off, cradling the infant in his arms, his gaze falling to her cherubic cheeks. She yawned and smiled a gummy grin, her unfocused eyes fluttering shut. "I don't know how to raise an infant like her. You and she are different from Garlean babes." Cifra rolled her eyes and let out an annoyed click.

"Celli, children are children. They eat and grow just the same. Raising a Roegadyn is no different from raising a Lalafell; the only change is the pace at which they grow. It's true that our kind stops aging after a certain point, around sixteen or seventeen by your people's standards, but you feed and care for a Viera the same way you would for a Hyur or a Garlean." Her arms were crossed as she stared pointedly at the man. Though he was the kindest imperial soldier she had met, there was no denying that he still regarded her and other non-Garleans as savages, as was their way. Garleans were raised to believe that other races, especially the more bestial ones, were uneducated savages dependent on their use of magic. Her annoyed gaze returned to tracing the worn lines of his face, his expression reflecting reluctance and disbelief. With an exasperated sigh, Cifra shook her head. "I can provide milk for the babe and the oils you'll need for her ears and tail, but the rest is up to you." The man's brows furrowed as he stared at the child.

He gazed at the now slumbering babe as if she had sprouted horns and wings. "How do I wash her ears?"

[bubblesandgutz]

Every Record I Own - Day 799: The Rolling Stones Let It Bleed

The Stones grew on me over years, decades. I must've bought this beat-up copy of Let It Bleed sometime in the late '00s, back when my enjoyment of The Stones was centered almost exclusively on selected tracks from the first half of Exile on Main St. and a handful of other songs from their catalog. I wasn't blown away by Let It Bleed. I had always liked "You Can't Always Get What You Want," but there wasn't much else there that grabbed me.

While my appreciation continued to grow, my love for the Stones really started ramping up in 2020, during the summer of the pandemic and the Black Lives Matter protests. I spent a lot of time in my backyard, just trying to enjoy being outside and absorbing as much sunlight as possible. The Stones sounded ideal in that environment, even if it was just as background music.

Maybe it had something to do with the revelrous spirit of The Stones in a time of uncertainty. I mean, this is an album that opens with "Gimme Shelter"---a song with the chorus "rape and murder / it's just a shot away." Founding member Brian Jones had been fired during the writing of the album and had died a month later. There was already a black cloud hovering over the album. And then a week after its release, Meredith Hunter was murdered by Hells Angels during the Stones' set at Altamont. Let It Bleed was woven into the Zeitgeist of the end of the '60s, when the idealism of the hippie movement was crumbling under the weight of the Manson murders and the systematic undermining efforts of the CIA and the FBI.

"Gimme Shelter" might be a dark opening track, but Let It Bleed is largely an album about resilience. Side A closes with the title track and it's reassuring chorus "We all need someone we can lean on / And if you want it, you can lean on me." A similar sentiment closes out Side B with an almost parallel vocal melody when Jagger sings "You can't always get what you want / but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need."

There's a harbinger of the destructive self-indulgence of the '70s embedded into Let It Bleed too. There's casual mentions of cocaine and heroin. Brazen references to sexual exploits. One could even argue that the general upbeat spirit of the album in the wake of both personal and global hardships was part of a larger trend of the '60's counterculture's waning impact. As a punk teenager, the Stones' commercialism and seemingly a-political nature was the driving source of my disdain for the band. How could you write a song as frivolous as "Country Honk" when the world is burning?

As an adult, particularly during the turbulent years of the pandemic, the Stones ability to navigate and acknowledge social unrest and private tragedies while still finding a way to make life-affirming and defiantly celebratory music was downright healing. It may not have been what I wanted, but it was exactly what I needed.

[cinnamunspice]

(okay hear me out.... An au where Silena survives the BoM...? For Thalia)

It was going to be a long road back to normalcy, especially given that, while no one had mentioned it to her directly, everyone knew what she'd done. Charitably, they called her a hero. Less so, they pitied the damage she'd taken in earning that status-- drakon poison to the face, leaving behind burn scars and blinding her in one eye, was apparently enough for them to forgive her of the bracelet they'd found on her. (Others would say that it was her bravery in leading the charge with the Ares kids that did it, but it was hard to separate the feeling of guilt from what she'd done in the battle).

In her opinion, however, the worst fate of all was facing the world after without Charlie by her side.

The camp had been a whirlwind of activity lately, between the battle, the new oracle, the new prophecy, the rebuilding efforts, and the endless celebrations. Everyone was joyful.

And it wasn't that she wasn't happy. She was. They'd defeated Kronos and made life better for every demigod who came up after them.

Still, it was hard to feel celebratory those days. The camp had given so much in an effort to survive, and what they had gained would never make up for what they had lost.

Perhaps it was this feeling that kept her from bothering the hunters the way she normally did. Instead, she sat on the outskirts of the bonfire, keeping mostly to herself, though she did cast the occasional sideways glance at the daughter of Zeus nearby.

There was so much to be spoken about with her, wasn't there?

unprompted / always accepting !

You ever see a storm without ever hearing the rumble of THUNDER ? The crack of lightning, the wind force, the storm revolving around you? It's not nearly as cinematic as action movies make it seem; the highest points of action slowing down reality, your ears ringing from the pure onslaught of brain numbing stimuli. She knew the looks others would throw her way at the celebration, whether or not she blended into the hunter's uniform, or opted for her casual graphic tee and ripped jeans. It didn't matter that she was out, because at the end of the day: you're never really out, right? And how could she say no to the faces of Percy, to Annabeth, to Grover? It didn't matter that she didn't need this. This was beyond her.

The sound of thunder hadn't returned. The storm came, went, and now she was staring into the bright licking flames of the bonfire, among a celebration that felt too weirdly like a dance after a FUNERAL. Too cheerful. Too much like a blanket over the grieving forms that she called comrades.

Smoke rose, dance, and played in a similar way. It was easier for her to focus on that sensation, any kind of reminder that she was alright, that it was over, and that the cost didn't rip out so much of her soul, her youth, and the space between her and those she might have considered friends, if things had turned out different.

Many of her sisters, the people she'd grown close to over the past year, were either huddled together, or absent completely. To mingle among the other demigods was rare, despite the past week's rare occurrences. The APOCALYPSE seemed like a good enough time to break old habits. She lifted the plastic bottle of her Kool-Aid to her lips, hunched over as she sat on the log, largely ignoring the sights around her for the quiet remembrance. Thalia saw his face. It hurt. It pissed her off.

Suddenly, the fire looked too bright. Too painful.

Thalia caught her eye, next.

It was a miracle that she survived. Even more, she looked like she needed company. Silena looked like she wanted Thalia's company, in particular. She wasn't afraid of a fight, she wasn't afraid of anything, anymore. The losses she gained ripped a tapestry she thought had been long burned, away in some haunted mansion where the rest of the dead she'd loved, gone.

Daughter of Aphrodite. Daughter of Zeus. Not anymore, and how much had Silena lost in love? How utterly ironic. The teenager moved slowly, but in the moonlight, she might have cast almost a glow. Sitting next to Silena, she offered the rest of her drink.

"I would have expected more ribbing, more teasing from you." Not tonight, obviously.

Thalia's facade crumbled.

What could you say? What was there to be said?

And then she just put a hand on the other girl's shoulder.

[lordofthestrix]

Tristora post ocean

Who asks the other on dates: Aurora invites him to partake in each step of her audacious and cunning plan to slowly reconcile him with the ocean. On a similar note, Tristan sets his own pleasant or thrilling events and experiences destined to make sure her forced sleep didn't leave her dejected or worried. They are considerably booked on both sides. Who is the bigger cuddler: Why are you making a question when you should be providing a fireplace? Who initiates holding hands more often: Aurora. But Tristan claims her hand to kiss its back or guide her in an improvised dance movement notably more often than ever before. Who remembers anniversaries: Aurora is absolutely convinced that while he is getting better and present in almost every way, Tristan remains dispersed enough as to have no idea what day of the week it is most of the time. So she is pretty surprised when her birthday gifts that year are even more elaborate than the norm Who is more possessive: Just don't step excessively close to the vicinity of either of them following the reunion for at least...The next century? Don't interrupt or join their conversations at all. Don't look for too long in their general direction. There is danger everywhere. It is an hurricane of fire zone. Who gets more jealous: Hurricane of fire zone. What is it that you are not getting, my esteemed meme? Who is more protective: We discussed surrounding topics in the past. I still maintain that Tristan is extremely bad at letting anyone take care of him in any capacity. I still maintain Rory would be the person who can get away with it. They tie in how extra they are about feral protection over the other at some moments following the re-encounter. Who is more likely to cheat: Aurora cheated several norms and regulations on how to legally build an aquarium. Who initiates sexy times the most: Tristan does return with insatiable and burning passion. Who dislikes PDA the most: I ignore who they are and that's probably for the best. For their own sake, it would be in their best interest to remain anonymous. -Points to the hurricane of fire explanation- Who kills the spider: You know what? They have a pleasant moment of wicked complicity. That one spider was a bothersome nuisance. They have a relaxing moment of enjoyment killing the spider together. Who asks the the other to marry them: In between their two classic and alternating backstories there is one that sounds incredibly more believable for the way they are behaving. Who buys the other flowers or gifts: ...Can you imagine the horror? They would drive the two of us insane. Who would bring up possibly having kids: You exhaust me, meme. Who is more nervous to meet the parents: Do you reckon the sleeping spell Aurora was under included dreams? If so, Aurora was more nervous about nightmares directly related to the Count than Tristan was hearing him as one of the many voices haunting him in between chocking to death again and again. Who sleeps on the couch when the other is angry: In their ecstatic and blissful celebratory decades over their reunion? Not likely. Who tries to make up first after arguments: Their willingness and/or capacity to play the long game if it involves more time apart is heavily compromised right now. Who tells the other they love them more often: 𝕁𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤? Do you keep the official score?

[boythirteen]

Thank you for showing me the book and the chicken. I finished writing the sermon.I may do some revising but will show it to you anyway.

Hello everyone. Thank you to Rev. Pat for asking me to preach today. It feels like a better day. It feels like our world has shifted to a different timeline since last I was here. This timeline feels more on track toward the commonwealth. It has beacons in it like Tim Walz’s son Gus and the boxer Imane Khelif. I guess they were already here in the other timeline but this one has made certain that we take notice and claim them and share a celebratory, protective love around them. 

The reading from Isaiah for today is about a celebratory shift of replenishment and renewal for people and nature. It says to those with fearful hearts, “Be strong, do not fear. It also says that God will come with vengeance and divine retribution, which sounds like an old understanding of God that isn’t what I believe. Although I do believe in the call to hold Trump civilly and criminally accountable for his many heinous acts, and to have such a call be issued by God on high as a divine edict would be amazing beyond measure.

Otherwise I was thinking about how time seems to have sped up and is causing problematic things to develop exponentially, such as climate change and technological advancements like AI. And that the speed of their development is more than we can keep up with, much less stave off. And I had been considering this in a wholly negative way of everything racing toward apocalypse. But now I’ve become more open to the possibility that the exponential nature of time could also be affecting human evolutionary growth toward enlightenment—that we could be learning and growing together at an exponentially increasing pace even slogging through so many hateful and destructive elements. We could be having a big growth spurt. My openness to such a new and hopeful thought is part of the new timeline, and also part of what the verses for today are about—opening ears and loosening tongues and water gushing forth in the wilderness. Jesus says “Ephphatha!”“Be opened!”

I want to think about the gushing water first. How “water will gush forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert.” How “the burning sand will become a pool, the thirsty ground bubbling springs,” as it says in Isaiah.

I’ve told you before about the annual bike trip I take with Frances every July, mostly in Florida. We went again this year. We took our bikes on a train from here to Jacksonville, then rode them from Jacksonville to Key West where we stayed for a week because of it being the best, most favorite place. Then we took a long ferry ride from Key West to Fort Myers on the Gulf side and rode our bikes from there to Tampa, with a side trip to Clearwater for 3 days. Clearwater is where we stayed at the funny old deco motel in a room that was somehow the size of a house inside. It had a kitchen and bedroom and bathroom and living room and old wooden furniture and deco prints on the walls. We watched the Olympics on the big incongruous flat screen tv on the wall in the living room and felt oddly patriotic and newly interested in sports of all kinds. Clearwater is also where I was hit by a car. It was all my fault and the car wasn’t going very fast, although it seemed to not want to stop in a sort of menacing way. I wasn’t really hurt but my basket on the front of my bike got crushed. Then we took the train home from Tampa.

What I can report is that this was one of the most fun trips of all of our many adventurous trips. I don’t really know how to say why. I just know that it’s settling in my memory as a big bright ball of fun and happiness, even with its many challenging parts, some of which were dark such as being hit by the car, which still didn’t override the feeling of joy and safety that imbued the whole experience. And yet it was notably hotter than ever before. I’m fairly certain it was. I’ve never really noticed the heat on previous trips, or not in the way of it being an obstacle as it definitely was for a few days this time. One day the heat index was 112 degrees. What I learned from the heat was to love water, and that the phrase “water is life” is true. I’d never thought so deeply about water before because I’d never needed it as deeply. I had a cup holder attached to my handlebars with a big insulated mug with artwork of smiling cows and bows and flowers on it. I’d bought it at a gas station having no idea that it would be a perfect mug. It fit exactly in the cup holder and kept the water freezing cold. Ice just never melted in my mug. It had a straw so I could lean forward and drink from it as I rode along. It was all such a rejuventing, magical thing. When I drank the cold water I could feel it coursing through me in the most literal way. I could feel the sun-baked, dried up parts of me moisten and plump up and become pliable. I started thinking of the water as a miracle cure. I was thinking of pouring it on lifeless things and possibly bringing them to life. These are thoughts that may happen when you ride along on your bike. I wanted to pour water on the flattened roadkill animals.

Because of this new relationship I made with water, I think I almost understand that Jesus spat and touched the man’s tongue because water is life.

I want to read the verses from Mark again:

Then Jesus left the vicinity of Tyre and went through Sidon, down to the Sea of Galilee and into the region of the Decapolis. There some people brought to him a man who was deaf and could hardly talk, and they begged Jesus to place his hand on him. After he took him aside, away from the crowd, Jesus put his fingers into the man’s ears. Then he spit and touched the man’s tongue. He looked up to heaven and with a deep sigh said to him, “Ephphatha!” (which means “Be opened!”). At this, the man’s ears were opened, his tongue was loosened and he began to speak plainly. Jesus commanded them not to tell anyone. But the more he did so, the more they kept talking about it. People were overwhelmed with amazement. “He has done everything well,” they said. “He even makes the deaf hear and the mute speak.”

In thinking about this story, or any instance of Jesus healing someone of a disability, my understanding is that it is always an act of inclusion. Those in need of healing are the ones who’ve been cast out, who've been deemed “unclean” by a restrictive, sanctimonious society. The act of healing is a loving act of embracing a person whom others have viewed as untouchable. In this particular healing story, Jesus is especially physically intimate with his healing touch. He kind of spits in the man’s mouth. He pokes his fingers in the man’s ears. Far from acknowledging any societal barrier between himself and the man, he seems to want to almost merge with him and mingle their molecules.

What I’m wondering about is more a modern question of ableism, of whether the man feels himself to be in need of healing or whether he knows himself to be already whole as he is, with the need being for society to make a place for him, not for him to be miraculously changed to physically match the majority or else accept exclusion and ridicule. 

A notable aspect of Mark’s healing story is that others brought the deaf man to Jesus and advocated for him. These were our early forebears who envisioned a more inclusive world and saw in Jesus a promise of this world to come. I think Jesus was trying to address both an immediate human need for belonging and a longer-term process of setting in motion societal change, a very slow process but one I can feel as part of the growth spurt of now. I’m thinking of Tim Walz’s neurodivergent son Gus and his exhuberant public expression of pride in his father, how the atmosphere of the Democratic convention was one of inclusion and expansive room for all manner of diversity, with Gus being emblematic of authenticity and freedom from gender-binary expectations of behavior, and from restrictions on emotional expression altogether.

And Imane Khelif’s Olympic experience, too, points to societal growth in the face of desperately clinging bigotry. I’m so happy she won her boxing gold medal. And that so much of the world cheered for her and could see the ugliness of J K Rowling and her minions purporting to be arbiters of who can be women in their binary universe. How diversity won out. How the Olympic opening ceremony was just the gayest thing and felt like solidarity facing down bigotry. 

The Olympics and the Democratic Convention, both, were occasions where the sentiments expressed and exhibited may once have seemed like cheesy platitudes but now rang out with sincerity and depth of meaning. I cried during both. I think everyone did. I saw someone online describe the collective crying as the most complex tears of his lifetime.

One thing I do wish, though, is that the Democratic Convention had agreed to make room for a Palestinian speaker. Because of how it could have further consolidated the already pervasive spirit of inclusion, as well as given a more complete voice to an urgent concern of the world. But still I feel heartened that this omission hasn’t been reason to condemn the convention as a whole. That the goodness of the convention is still very good. This idea that something can have flaws and still be very good also seems like a kind of growth, to me. That because something good could have been even bigger and better doesn’t mean that its own measure of goodness isn’t valid and enough.

Something like this seems to be happening with Jesus commanding everyone not to talk about the healing they’ve witnessed. I think it's because of the intimacy of it, and also because of something being enough as itself. Jesus shared love and healing with the man in a private way. He took him aside, away from the crowd, and did the intensely hands-on things of touching the man’s tongue and feeling inside his ears. The story doesn’t tell us what the man said with his new loosened tongue, but surely his experience of Jesus’s healing love was much more deeply affecting than any witness of it could fully understand or relate to others. And Jesus’s experience, too, was more than the seeing or telling of it could communicate. Maybe it just wasn’t intended to be a relatable production or proof of divine power. Maybe it was a singular, vulnerable occasion of giving and receiving love that Jesus wanted to protect as itself, not use to overwhelm everyone with amazement. He’d been able to offer healing love to someone who was open to it, someone who completely accepted and absorbed it in such a trusting, believing way that it manifested as bodily healing. And maybe this is the secret of divine healing. The openness to it. The acceptance of divine love. The belief in oneself as worthy and beloved.

What I’ve learned again and again from all of Rev. Pat’s sermons is that the most important thing is for us to believe that we’re God’s beloved— that this is our deepest, truest identity for us to fully accept and claim and know with our whole selves. And that knowing this and acting from this assurance is how we spread love in the world. Which is how we create God’s commonwealth of glorious diversity and shared humanity where everyone belongs. 

But do I, still, not truly fully know with my whole self that I’m God’s beloved?

Is there anything you would change about yourself if you had the means? A spiritual thing or emotional thing or physical or even a material thing. I have a belief that whatever personal changes we may want to make, however in service to vanity or not, however deep or not, are all things we hope will be healing, and with a result of helping us to feel more worthy of love and belonging. Or this is true for me, anyway.

I was watching a video of Post Malone singing a country kind of song and found myself wanting silver teeth like his. And this would be an improvement of me and make me more worthy is what I believe somewhere deep inside.

But the more profound change or healing I want is at the heart of it all, which is that I want to be able to believe that I’m loved.

Something I realized more profoundly on the bike trip is that I have trouble believing this. I have trouble recognizing love that’s given to me. I won’t go into the many thoughts and glimmers of epiphany that helped me to better see this part of myself. The bike trip has lots of built in time for refection. Mine included childhood parts and other parts of my history and familial relationships, as all of us carry, as well as recent emotional events. The newest aspect of my understanding, though, the growth part, is that I want to change.   

And this is an odd dilemma or catch-22 about the secret of divine healing, which is that divine healing seems to need me to feel worthy of it, to accept my belovedness in order to be healed of my inability to fully believe that I am beloved. 

Well, what I want to say about this is that, strangely, it feels more like an opportunity than an impasse. It feels like something to pour water on.

Amen.      

[abellinthecupboard]

Blunt Morning

(July 15, 1979) I'll never forget that morning when my mother-in-law floated in a netherworld of morphine-induced sleep, those lingering hours of an otherwise ordinary Sunday when she entered into a country that wasn't sleep so much as a blue comatose state of semi- consciousness that she inhabited to avoid the pain. All that blunt sunlit morning we signaled each other and talked over and around her emaciated shape propped up on the pillows for what were obviously her final hours of life on this earth. She was breathing heavily, she was laboring in her non-sleep, in her state of drifting to wherever it was she was going—and suddenly I couldn't stand it any longer. I moved next to her and began talking, I didn't ask any questions, I didn't know what I was saying I was speaking so quickly. I said that we were all there, all of us, Janet and Sophie and Susan, who was playing the piano in the living room, that we loved her intensely, fiercely, that we missed her already—where was she?— we wished we could do something, anything, that we each have tasks to fulfill on this planet and her job now was to die, which she was doing so well, so courageously, so gracefully, we were just amazed at her courage. I know she could hear me— and that's when she opened her eyes and fixed me with her stare. She wasn't moving but she was looking at me precisely in the eyes. I'll never forget that look—haunted, inquisitive, regal— and she was speaking, except her voice was too week and the sounds didn't rise beyond her throat, but she was speaking, and that's when Janet and Sophie started singing Hebrew songs—not prayers or psalms but celebratory songs from Gertrude's childhood in Detroit, and she was singing, too, she remembered the words, except we couldn't hear any words, nothing was coming out of her mouth, but she was tapping two fingers on the side of the rented hospital bed— and her lips were moving, she was singing. That's when Sophie started telling stories about their childhood, which seemed so far away and so near, like yesterday, and Gertrude was nodding, except her head didn't move, but anyone could see that she was nodding yes, and then Janet started talking about /her/ childhood in this very room where sunlight burned through the curtains, and then suddenly Gertrude jolted forward and started waving her arms— What is it? What is it? What is it?— because she was choking on her own phlegm and then she fell back against her pillows, and stopped breathing.

— Edward Hirsch, Earthly Measures (1994)

[topguncortez]

Bikinis and Tattoos - J. Seresin

pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Shy!Wife word count: 800 warnings: smutttyyy and slutttyyy. Mentions of sex, Jake can't keep his hands to himself. Suggestive language. A/N: A lil celebratory blurb for hitting 2k with the characters who got me here:) || Masterlist || Opposites Attract Masterlist || library page ||

It wasn’t very often that Jake and Y/N had a moment by themselves, let alone a whole week kid free. But it was their 10th wedding anniversary and her parents had bought them two non-refundable tickets to the Amalfi Coast. Y/N almost declined and pushed her parents to go, or even Rooster and Dragon, but Jake told her there was no way in hell they were going to miss out on a free trip. So now they were laying out in the sun, catching some much needed R&R. 

Jake leaned against the side of the pool, feeling the sun on his shoulders. The villa they had booked had a private pool, and Jake was loving every minute of it. Their first night here resulted in a midnight dip in the pool, followed by passionate sex against the side of it. 

“Here,” Y/N said, setting a new drink down in front of him, “Looked like you needed a refill.” 

Jake looked up at his wife and smiled, “Thank you, sweets.” 

She nodded and walked over to one of the sun loungers, spreading out her towel. Jake couldn’t help but look over her body, the red bikini she wore left little to the imagination. Her body had changed over the years from having three kids, but she was still breathtaking. Her skin was perfectly sunkissed, and the suntan oil on her skin made her glisten just a bit. Jake had memorized every single curve, line, blemish on her body from the years they have spent together. He knew where to kiss, where to suck, where to touch her to make her go crazy. He liked his lips as he leaned up a bit more, as she bent in front of him, her ass on display. He reached up to smack her ass cheek but faltered, seeing the faintest black cursive ink on her skin. 

Jake squinted his eyes, trying to make out with the words on her skin said, and smirked when he realized what it said. 

“Sweets,” Jake said, as she sat down on the towel covered sun lounger, “When did you get a tattoo?” 

“Oh!” She blushed and lifted her right hip slightly, “It was uh. . . dare.” 

“A dare?” Jake’s bright teeth were on display as he smirked.

“At girls night, a couple months ago. Phoenix, Val, Dragon and Halo dared me to get a tattoo so I got-” 

“My callsign on your ass?” 

“Yeah,” Her ears were burning as she tried to look anywhere but at Jake’s electric green eyes. 

Jake bit his lip as he placed his palms flat on the concrete before pushing himself out of the pool. Y/N looked over the top of her sunglasses as he walked over to her, swinging his hips just slightly. She bit her lip as he leaned down, resting his hands on the armrests of the sun lounger. He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers, running a hand down her side to her right hip. She gasped as he roughly flipped her over onto her front. 

“Why would you look at that,” Jake smirked, and ran a delicate finger over the tiny cursive writing on her ass cheek, “Hangman.” 

“Do you like it?” She looked over her shoulder and Jake looked up at her, his green eyes blown wide with lust. He shamelessly adjusted himself in his swim trunks, keeping eye contact with her as he bent down and placed a kiss on the tattoo. She moaned at the feeling of his warm lips on her skin, her back arching slightly. 

“I love it sweetheart,” Jake said, “Cause it means that you’re mine. All mine.” 

“All yours. . . daddy,” She bit her lip and Jake let out a groan. She couldn’t even process what was happening as Jake quickly picked up her body and slung her over his shoulder. Y/N let out a squeal, followed by a series of giggles as she reached down and smacked Jake’s ass. 

“Hey!” Jake exclaimed, and delivered a smack back to her’s. 

“Oi!” Y/N giggled as Jake tossed her down on the California king bed. Her body bounced slightly off the mattress, making her tits move. Jake wasn’t sure when she bought this swimsuit, or where she had been hiding it, but it had quickly become one of his favorites. 

“God look at you,” He said, feeling himself strain against his boxers. She bit her lip and ran her hands down her body, squeezing her tits slightly and running her hands lower. Jake had loved how confident she had grown over the years. It turned him on like none other. 

“Touch me, please. . . Hangman.” 

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Jake groaned and leaned down to place a bruising kiss on her lips. 

And nine months later. . . Jasper and Maxwell Seresin were born.

[delopsia]

Whiskey Sour | Rhett Abbott X Reader

Word Count: 5,600 Cross Posted Here on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, , hand jobs, oral, unprotected sex, edging, begging, afab!reader. ya'll asked, and you shall receive :)

It really shouldn't bother you that Maria is back in town.

It really shouldn't bother you that she's decided to add herself to your little group, innocently settled between you and Rhett as she chatters away about high school events that you weren't here for. You're sure her friends didn't intentionally join just to push you all the way out of the little circle that's formed at the bar. Perry's receiving much of the same treatment, pushed away by a giggling flock of ladies that have taken a new liking to Rhett.

No, it shouldn't bother you.

"Is it just me," Perry says to you, although he makes no effort to lower his voice, "or did we just get kicked out of our own conversation?"

You've been so distracted by keeping the girls out from under your skin that you didn't notice Perry order two double shots from the bartender. But now, he's handing you a small glass, and you're clinking them together in a celebratory, 'fuck this.'

Whatever it is in this glass, tequila, you think, it burns its way down your dry throat like an inferno; not your favorite, but it gets the job done. Anything to avoid facing the intrusive thoughts ebbing at your psyche.

"Pretty sure we did," hailing down the bartender; it's your turn to pick a drink, and you're gonna need something that'll last longer than a shot.

As your bartender whisks off to craft your choice of beverages, the music blaring on the radio comes to an end. For a brief moment, the bar becomes quieter; it's now that you hear what Maria's friend is saying.

"Not to be rude, but Rhett's sex life must be boring as hell now," the blonde giggles, Molly, you think her name is. Her friends just laugh right along with her; you pretend you don't see the wayward glances and hands shielding their lipstick smiles.

So it seems we're being catty tonight.

"Whiskey Sours?" Perry's deep voice is a welcomed change compared to the shrillness on your left. "Haven't had one of these since I first got with Rebecca."

He's quick to pluck the cherry from his drink, gently placing it alongside the one floating in your own glass. Not a fan of cherries, it seems; to each their own.

"Need something that'll distract me for longer than a minute," sipping your drink; there's more lemon than there should be, but you'll take it.

Even the bite of the whiskey cannot tear your thoughts off that comment. You know very well that it's just petty trash talk to hype up their friend, but it's lit a match in the back of your mind. Boring, as in not having a new partner every week, or boring, as in bad sex?

Surely by now, you've got a leg up on the pretty pillow princesses and buckle bunnies that seem to follow Rhett like a bunch of cats in heat. But can you jump up on a ledge that they could never dream of reaching?

Hm.

The gaggle of goslings starts to fuss, and you don't need to tilt your head to know why.

"Hey, darlin'," Rhett's pressing a less into the side of your head, cold nose bumping against you and making you squirm, "what's my baby drinkin' now?"

You hate him for making your heart flutter like that; you really do.

"Whiskey Sour," you say, lifting your glass for him to take; if there's anything you know about Rhett Abbott, it's that he loves trying new drinks, but he's too shy to order anything that doesn't scream "manliest man to ever man."

Maria's saying something, you can hear her voice behind you, but you can't focus on anything but the little grin that etches its way onto Rhett's face when the drink hits his tongue.

"Don't suppose you want the cherry Perry forfeited too?" As if to emphasize your statement, you pick it up, twirling the stem between two fingers.Quiet, Rhett reaches out for it, brows furrowing as he pops it in his mouth.

Just then, Perry's phone lights up with a ding. In the second that it's on, you see that it's Rebecca who's texted him, and whatever the message contains must be quite something because Perry's face changes the second he sees it.

"I—uh, Rhett, do you want mine?" He fumbles to shove it in his pocket, already halfway out of his seat. "I need to...Rebecca needs me home."

...ah.

Rhett doesn't seem to have the same epiphany you've just had, but he's more than content to take Perry's seat and finish off his glass. Perry practically flies out of the bar; you suppose Rebecca must have just sent him a photo of her in the new lingerie set she just got.

Up until now, you'd forgotten about the ruby red lingerie you'd chosen to put on for tonight. At the time, you hadn't expected Rhett to have one of those rides that warrant a few rounds at the bar—you'd really just expected to watch him ride and then surprise him once he'd got back in the truck. It's a cute lace set, but now that you've remembered you're wearing it, you're acutely aware of how uncomfortable it can be.

"Can you watch my drink for me?" You ask him, and you don't need to provide anything else; he's already reaching out for it, covering the top with a protective palm.

"It's safe with me, doll," he sticks his tongue out, proudly revealing a knotted cherry stem. God, he's cute. It almost makes you feel bad for what you're about to do to him.

Almost.

The bathroom is just a single room; you're not sure why a bar this size chose to have it set up like this, but it only plays into your hand. Their poor design choice allows you a little more privacy in front of this mirror.

Hooking your thumb under your shirt and pulling it up, up, up until—alright yeah, maybe you should tilt your hips to the left. Hell, now it's not looking as good in the camera as it does in the reflection.

You almost regret this idea, but as you finally find the right angle to snap your picture, the results are worth all the awkward twisting and turning you've just done. Whoever said taking photos like these is easy was a straight-up liar.

It takes just as long to readjust your clothing, straightening your shirt, and fiddling with the itchy lace that just doesn't want to let you forget that it's there again. The photo should take a while to send; Wabang signal has never been great, to begin with; you probably still have time to finish your drink and get out before Rhett sees it.

Opening the door, you're instantaneously met with the mouth-watering sight of a slack-jawed cowboy walking down the hallway, your whiskey sour still held in his hand.

"Baby doll," haven't heard that nickname in a while, "when did—did you just take that?"

And yet, Rhett doesn't let you answer; as soon as he's close enough, he's crowding you backward, free hand on your hip as he pushes you right back into the bathroom. He's kissing you before your back has even hit the wall, and it's the messiest thing you've ever found yourself wrapped up in.

You don't want to melt into it, but you do. Your mouth opens to his, and you can taste the lingering whiskey and lemon on his tongue as it intertwines with yours.

You're not sure what it is, but something possesses you to reach for his hand, guiding it up under your shirt. You know he's found the answer to his question when he makes a noise against your lips, fingers curling around the lace adorning your chest. Your hips bump together; God, he's already hard.

"You've been wearing this the whole time?" Incredulous, his fingers crawl up under the lace, his thumb swiping over a sensitive nipple.

"Had plans," you offer, gasping against his lips, "your fans forced me to remake them."

Rhett frowns, and based on the way he draws back so suddenly, you know he must be feeling guilty. Your glass settles on the counter with a soft noise, and he's gripping your hips with both hands now, mouth finding its way to the skin under your ear.

"'m sorry, doll," voice gravely as he works his way down your neck, biting lightly at your collarbone. Calloused thumbs hook into the waistband of both your shorts and your underwear.

Oh.

Ever so slowly, he sinks to his knees before you, pulling your garments down in tandem. Good lord isn't that a sight to behold. Rhett Abbott, blinking up at you with those pretty blue eyes as his hand hitches under your left knee, pushing it up until he can hook it over his shoulder. He peppers the inside of your thigh with soft, fleeting kisses, each one closer and closer to the wetness between your legs.

There is no hesitation in giving you what you want, all you have time for is one shaky breath, and he's dragging his tongue between your folds, licking broad, flat stripes into your aching cunt.

"Rhett," you whine, tangling your fingers into his messy hair, still damp from his shower, "fuck."

He moans into you, twirling his tongue along your clit in messy figure eights. You've only told him how to do it once in the past, but fuck, he hasn't forgotten, it seems. He's got you tangled up in an iron grip, keeping your thigh securely over his shoulder while the other hand keeps your hips steady. Absolutely refuses to let you squirm away from his burning hot tongue as it licks rapidly at the little bud he's caught between his lips.

"That feel good?" He asks, voice rumbling into your sensitive cunt, "hm?" And you don't know who's more worked up, you or him.

Your hips twitch at his words, and he moans quietly, some soft little noise that barely reaches your ears. Fuck, you want to hear him make that noise again.

That's a thought you'll have to store for later because right now, there's a coil burning to life in your lower belly, twisting and tightening with every thick, wet stroke of his pink tongue. There's nothing you can do to slow your breathing; stop the way you've started panting into the open air.

You're already close, and you find yourself reaching for the cherry still floating in the remains of your drink, popping it into your mouth in an effort to keep yourself at bay.

"Come on, darlin'," picking up his pace, "cum on my tongue."

The coil snaps, and with a soft whine, your body tenses, cumming on his tongue as it continues to work you. He chuckles into you, lightly licking you through your high until you're squirming away from him.

By the time you catch your breath, he's already risen to his feet, tongue back in your mouth as he kisses you rather roughly. You can taste yourself on him.

"Go pay off your tab," you murmur against his lips, "if you're good, maybe I'll give you what you want when we get home."

The ghost of a pout lingers on his lips as your hand lands on his chest, pushing him back until he can no longer reach your lips. When you pull your shorts back up and don't budge on your decision, he reaches into his pocket, handing over his truck keys, "I'll be there in a minute."

You can't help but notice the severe lack of a cherry stem in your mouth as he disappears back inside. Based on your fleeting scan of the ground below your feet, it hasn't fallen either.

You're almost surprised to find that there isn't a line formed outside the bathroom, surely someone would have come knocking by now, but there isn't a soul in the corridor as the two of you slip out the door. Rhett's walking rather briskly, can't quite meet your eye as you split into separate directions.

Stepping outside brings you a welcome breath of fresh Wyoming air. Crisp with all things autumn and the lightest hint of lingering cigarette smoke, it's heaven, compared to the stuffiness of the bar, overcome with cheap perfume and the sharp bite of booze.

As nice as it is outside, it feels so much nicer once you've climbed into his passenger seat. You decide to be nice and take the liberty of starting the old truck up, turning on the heat. Long gone are the days when you could comfortably sit in here with the windows down. Now, your nose is red from the cold, cheeks threatening to become chapped if you stay out any longer than you have to.

Rhett's better at hiding his desperation than his brother, but there's a lingering agency in his step as he approaches the truck, adjusting himself in his jeans.

"Someone's bothered," you chime the moment he's opened the door.

"Yeah," damn near shuts his foot in the door with his urgency to get going, "that's the fault of the pretty little thing in my passenger seat."

That goddamn cherry stem is in his mouth.

He keeps it there, too. Rolls it back and forth between his teeth as he drives, flips it back and forth with his tongue at the red light. Toying with the prize, he'd so smoothly stolen right from under your tongue. Part of you wonders if he's intentionally showing it off, curling his tongue more than necessary just to remind you of what his mouth can do to you.

Maybe he stole it from you on accident, just like maybe you chose the middle seat by accident, and your hand just so happens to accidentally land on his inner thigh.

"Baby," he warns, but there's no venom to it.

Rhett only ever drives with his left hand on the steering wheel; he could very well reach down and stop your fingers from drawing circles into the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, but he doesn't.

He squirms, kicks his hips lower in the seat in a feeble attempt to get your hand over his cock; you'll just let that slip your psyche, fingers remaining fixated on his thigh instead.

Soon enough, he's turning into your street, albeit a bit faster than he probably should. The movement jostles you into him, your hand unintentionally pressing against the hardness between his legs, and the noise that slips out of his mouth is the unholiest thing you've ever heard.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" He huffs, and the turn he takes into the driveway is sharp; you're prepared this time, and your hand doesn't repeat the same mistake.

"My hand can take a pretty good guess," it's when the truck comes to a stop that your hand slides up, fingers gently tracing around the bulge in his jeans.

Just from your touch alone, his eyelids shudder, fighting to stay open. Using the palpable outline as a guide, your wandering fingertips are able to find the head of his cock, applying just a bit of pressure as your thumb fiddles with it. Back and forth, you roll him between your index and thumb.

"God, fuck," his forehead hits the steering wheel with a soft thump, "baby, I hope you're not just toying with me."

"Only if you figure out the magic word," taunting in your best sing-song voice, and in one smooth motion, you're sliding across the seat and hopping out of the truck.

Rhett is much slower to get out; you've already walked through the front door by the time you hear his boots hit the ground. Poor guy, you'd almost feel guilty if a cocktail of spite and curiosity weren't coursing through your veins right now.

Your clothes are discarded as soon as you step into the bedroom; you'd make him work to get them off if you weren't so damn tired of this lace itching your skin.

You feel Rhett before you see him, hot breath fanning out against the back of your neck as he looms behind you. The drag of his rough fingers against your sides is delicious, leaving goose bumps in their leisurely wake.

Not desperate enough.

However, as the scruff of that five o'clock shadow brushes against your cheek, thin lips pressing a kiss there, you can feel your willpower fold in half. God, why are you doing this again?

"So pretty," words crooned sweetly into your ear, teeth nipping at your lobe, "this all for me, darlin'?"

Your resolve weakens with each word; he's almost got you in the palm of his hand when the memories of the bar come flooding back. The comments, the giggling, the irritation that coursed through your veins when they'd hijacked your own conversation; like a phoenix, your intentions bubble back to the surface.

Turning, you come to face him, fingertips making quick work of his flannel as you meet his lips. He grunts, and you can practically feel the way his eyebrows raise with his surprise, but he's more than eager to reciprocate the gesture.

You've barely tugged his shirt off when finally, finally, that lace slips from your chest, lands on top of the shirt you've just made quick work of.

"On the bed," carefully disguising your orders with a sweet tone; if he catches on to what you're doing before you've got him at your mercy, he'll turn this into a battle over who can be more dominant, and he's got quite the winning streak.

It seems you've avoided setting off any warning bells because he sits on the bed without a complaint, is so, so pliant when you push him onto his back. Muscles flex under pale skin as he squirms until he's in the center of the bed, reaches out for you when you come up to straddle his hips.

"So pretty," you observe aloud, running your fingers through his hair; his cheeks flush pink, shy eyes averting your gaze.

The alcohol must be working its way into his system pretty well right now because he doesn't fuss like he usually does when you call him pretty. Still just as shy as he always is when you catch him off-guard, but less fussy.

He's so distracted that he doesn't realize you're leaning down to kiss his neck until your lips are on him. "Oh," he gasps, tilting his head to give you better access.

The possessive side of you wants to leave a mark right here, high up on his neck for everyone to see, telling everyone just who he belongs to, but you can still remember how awkward it had been the last time you gave him one.

Hickeys are all fun and games until momma asks where they came from.

So you forfeit his neck in exchange for kissing down his chest. Sucking soft marks into his skin that will disappear come morning, stopping midway to roll your tongue over a pink nipple.

Rhett jolts under you, his nipples have always been particularly sensitive, more so when he's tired, and there's alcohol buzzing through his bloodstream. Selfishly, you repeat the action, rolling the rapidly hardening bud between your lips.

"'t's not—" squirming below you, "you're not supposed to—"

"—not what, Rhett?" Playing innocent as you switch to pay attention to the other one, "hm?"

His argument dies in his throat the moment your teeth pull at his nipple, just enough to illicit a reaction, not enough to hurt, in the exact same fashion he's done to you oh so many times. Soothing your tongue over it, you replace your tongue with your fingertips, opting to roll it back and forth as you return to your original ventures.

He's properly squirming now, hips unable to keep still as your wet tongue trails down the defining line of his abdomen. There's something mesmerizing about it; if you'd known winding him up would get this out of him, you reckon you would have done it sooner.

Finally, you make it down to the waistband of his jeans, and you're already working on getting that bullhide belt off of him. It's tricky enough to work around that oversized buckle, but as soon as you've got it unhitched, it's smooth sailing from there. In a similar manner to what he'd done to you just an hour ago, you hook your fingers under his waistband and pull.

With his legs free of his jeans, It's only appropriate that you pay attention to those plush, milky white thighs of his. They tremble under your wandering fingers; always have been quite sensitive to your touches.

"Ah," whining quietly as your lips find the perfect spot to leave their first mark.

Rhett's thighs bruise quite easily; you already know the soft red mark you've sucked into his skin will blossom into a deep purple come sunrise. You wonder just how long he'll let you keep this up.

"So pretty," whispering praises into his thigh in between marks. You're almost eye level with his cock; hard against his belly. Experimental, you run a palm up the underside of it, and you find yourself mesmerized by how his hips raise with it, chasing your fleeting touch.

"Baby," he warns, but again, there's no bite to it, and he does nothing to stop you from switching to his neglected thigh.

Again, your palm meanders its way up the underside of his cock, swiping your thumb over his leaking slit, "poor baby," you coo, taking your hand off him once more, "is this all for me?"

Rhett refuses to speak, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth in an effort to remain silent. What he doesn't say with his mouth, he says with his body instead. If only he knew you could tell exactly what he was holding back verbally, just by the way his hips writhe against the mattress, legs trying their damndest to lock you in.

You take him into your hand, giving him one firm pump; he must think that's the end of your teasing because when you retract your hand once more, he whines high in his throat. 

"What the fuck," he breathes, and when he reaches down to do it himself, you bat his hands away, "why...?"

Someone must not have been paying attention in the truck. 

Nipping at a fresh new bruise you've taken the honor of adding to his rapidly building collection, you repeat your earlier statement, "figure out the magic word."

"'m not fuckin' beggin' for it," bullheaded as always; fortunately, there's a spot at the meet of his thigh that doesn't have a mark on it yet. You offer him no warning, simply leaning in to wet the area with your tongue. 

Rhett swears under his breath, little profanities that get quieter with your movements, tapering off into audible puffs of breath. You're almost amazed to see that cherry stem lingering in his mouth, poking out from between two canines. 

Switching to the other thigh yields better results, especially when you take the liberty of running your thumb along the underside of the head of his cock, tracing back and forth as slowly as you can manage. Friction, touch, but not quite there. 

Not quite what he's craving so badly.

Leaning back, you're finally able to fully take in and admire your handiwork; soft thighs, once completely unmarked now mottled with red splotches, some of which are already darkening. Rhett raises his knee, and you don't need to glance up to know that he's looking too. 

You stroke him once more, and his head falls back onto the pillow. Pause, count to thirty in your head, then repeat. 

"I—" eyebrows furrowing; you stroke him again, flicking your wrist as you do so. 

As convinced as you were that it would crack him, it seems it wasn't enough because he stays quiet. Fine, you'll let him go and recalculate—

"Please."

It's so quiet, so barely there, that you're almost convinced you may be hearing things, but then, "please, I don't—I..." 

On its own, your hand returns to him; using his precum as lubrication, you stroke him properly. The reaction you receive is instant, jaw falling slack, eyelashes fluttering like leaves in the autumn wind. The Rhett you usually receive in bed is quiet, nothing but deep grunts and breathy gasps, but the one in front of you is on the verge of whiny. Soft, barely there noises working their way out of his throat, so close to a proper sound. 

 Abruptly, you tighten your grip, and it's a motion that's always drawn a reaction from him, but you don't expect him to moan so loud. Just as quickly as you'd surprised him, he bites into the side of his palm, muffling the noises that follow. 

"Aw, don't cover your mouth," you're settling back between his legs as you speak, "I like hearing you."

Something about your words causes his cheeks to turn cherry red, and yet, he pries his hand back out of his mouth. There's that cherry stem again.

Your tongue meets the sensitive base of his cock, laving at where it meets his balls until it's so wet that it shines in the dim light. He looks like he's about to start fussing again just as you trace your tongue up a vein, following it until you can swirl around his sensitive head. 

"Fuck," he gasps, fisting the sheets, "p-please, darlin'."

And how can you wait any longer when he asks you so nicely?

Taking a deep breath in, you sink down on him, hollowing your cheeks as you work him into your mouth. Thick fingers take hold of the side of your head, gripping tight but not enough to hurt. You're only about halfway down when his hips twitch, and the head of his cock bumps into the back of your throat. You don't mean to gag around him, but the fluttering of your throat only serves to make him louder for you. 

"God, shit—" Rhett swears, and it's so loud compared to his former murmurings, "baby."

Breathing through your nose, you gather your composure, pushing yourself further down until he's properly working into your throat. It's not a motion you can maintain for more than a few seconds at a time, but lord, does it work wonders on your cowboy. 

Keening high in his throat, Rhett squirms against the sheets; you can't tell if he's trying to wriggle free or get more. The fat head of his cock eases into your throat with every motion, jaw already aching with the effort.

“Feels good,” he babbles, “fuck, that feels so good.”

With every motion, your throat grows more and more numb from the abuse it's receiving; as much as you know it's going to ache in a little bit, you take him even further until the tip of your nose just barely brushes against his belly. 

"'M already close," the words are just barely out of his mouth when you reel back, letting your mouth off him with a soft pop, and he whimpers. 

He's already about to fuss again when you wrap a hand around him, stroking once, twice, and then stopping firm at his base. What words were about to spill off his tongue instead ripples out as an outright sob, echoing throughout the bedroom. It sends heat flushing between your legs; you want to hear that again.

Rhett's hips attempt to draw back and rise into your hand, but you've got a firm grip that doesn't falter. "Please," like a mantra, over and over, “please, darlin', please let me cum.”

It's not your intention to make him cum yet, but your hand strokes up his cock anyway, painfully slow. "Are you gonna be a good boy for me?" Your voice is gravely, so different from how it was just a few minutes ago, "hm?"

At first, all he does is nod his agreement, but then your hand stops, "y-yes."

"Yes, what?"

He gulps, adam's apple bobbing with it, "I want—" his own voice is cut short by a sudden, shaky breath as your hand works him again, "I wanna be your good boy."

Letting go of him for the umpteenth time, you reach down to tug your lace panties off; even so, with your intentions so clear, Rhett starts to fidget. 

"Hold on, hold on," you can't help but giggle at the sight; he's reaching for you, eager fingers wiggling in an attempt to beckon you back to him faster. They settle onto your waist as soon as you're within reaching distance, holding on as you settle into his lap and take him into your hand once more.

You only have it in you to slide him between your folds once, and then you're letting him catch on your entrance. Despite him having laid you down and fucked you on the kitchen counter this morning, you can still feel the delicious stretch of his fat head as it eases into your cunt. 

As soon as your hips come flush together, you waste no time in placing your hands on his chest and drawing yourself back up. His head drags against the soft, spongey spot inside of you, and just the sensation alone is enough to have your entrance fluttering around him. 

"Baby, baby, baby," Rhett babbles, squeezing your hips in his hands, "just like that."

The pace you set is intense, almost brutal as your hips rise and fall on him; it feels like he's forcing the breath out of your lungs with every downward motion. Long gone is Rhett's ability to stay quiet, keening with every move you make, eyes rolling into the back of his head when you clamp down around him.

"I'm gonna cum," he blurts, "baby—ah! I'm gonna cum."

You stop, and he loses it.

"Fuck!" He cries, loud and desperate, "fuck, why-why won't you let me cum?"

Feigning obliviousness, you lean down until your noses are touching, "tie that cherry stem into a knot," those pretty blue eyes widen, "and maybe I'll let you cum."

You grant him just a few more seconds to recompose himself, and then your hips are working again, thighs lifting and dropping at the same pace as before. Your change in angle has rewarded you with the dizzying pleasure of his cock driving directly into that soft spot, a slick noise bouncing off the walls as your cunt takes him.

Rhett's eyebrows are furrowing with his effort to tie that damn cherry stem, but you foil his work by tightening yourself around him, "god, fuck, baby." 

His voice alone sends a wildfire raging in your lower belly, and with one hand, you reach between your bodies, fingertips finding your swollen clit. You're still so, so sensitive from your first orgasm, and all it takes is the fleeting memory of Rhett on his knees and few, well-placed spirals before you're freezing up on top of him. You cum with a soft cry, thighs clamping down on his hips as your body spasms. 

You don't quite remember closing your eyes, you don't think they've been closed for that long, but when they flutter open, you find quite the sight before you. 

"Darlin', please," his voice is weak as he squirms below you. His eyes water with unshed tears, threatening to bubble over with every blink, and he's trembling. "Darlin' darlin' I—"

His jaw shakes as his mouth closes, tongue working, again and again, to tie that damned cherry stem into a knot. 

Just as you pull off of him, his mouth opens, revealing a loosely tied stem. 

"Such a good boy for me," you praise, and your intentions are to lower yourself and suck him off, but he won't let you go. He's babbling something intelligible, pushed so, so far that he can't form his words properly. "Rhett?" 

He keens high in his throat, tries to repeat himself, but you still don't understand, and he still won't let you free of his iron grip.

"Okay, okay," scooting up the bed, you settle next to him, and he's so, so eager to hold you closer. 

Planting your hand on his back, you draw him in until his head is resting on your chest; with your free hand, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock. He jumps at your touch, squirming into it as he continues to babble something you can't make out, but it doesn't sound at all close to your safeword, so you keep stroking him. 

You squeeze him a little tighter, wrist flicking towards the end of each and every stroke, and you can feel him panting into your chest.

"I-I'm," it's the first thing you can understand, stutter punctuated by his hips weakly twitching into your palm. 

"Go ahead," murmuring into his messy hair, "cum for me, Rhett."

His breath hitches, and with a weakened whimper, he cums just as you'd asked, painting your hand and tummy with burning hot semen. You pump him through it until he's relaxing back into you, panting for his breath again.

Wet tears land on your chest, "fuck."

"Rhett?" You're worried—did you push him too far? Was he misremembering his safeword? 

But then he's tilting his head up you, smiling weakly but so, so genuinely up at you, "'m alright," he hiccups, voice rougher than you've ever heard it, "don't think I've ever been so desperate to cum in my life." He laughs at his own words, even more so when you join him. 

The both of you are an absolute wreck, sticky with a gross mixture of sweat, spit, and cum, but you can't bring yourself to move. You're not sure if Rhett will let go of you even if the house were to come burning down. 

"If I buy you another whiskey sour the next time we go to the bar," he says, kissing your skin as he shyly blinks up at you, "can we do that again?"

You think you just might melt. 

"Baby," leaning down to kiss him on the lips, "all you need to do is ask."

The next time you're at the bar, Rhett's so focused on ordering a very specific drink and high tailing it out of there that he doesn't even realize Maria and her friends are standing right next to him.

[eunivrse]

12:30PM [armin arlert]

content warning: lazy sex, cockwarming, breeding/creampie

word count: 894

note: a little celebratory treat for myself since midterms are over FINALLY. i took inspo from @/princess-jaeger’s eren drabble from like a few weeks ago so kudos to them for provoking me to write this :)

“already sleeping?” you hum, too tired to turn your head from the comfortable position you’re in right now; lying to your side, eyes drooping down from fatigue. midterms are finally over and the first thing you sought for was the plush duvet of your sheets as soon as you stepped out of the classroom.

armin whispers, tone low with one arm draped over you, your back against his chest. “probably. it’s been a long week.” you had just taken a shower, the refreshing scent of your sage soap triggering his senses and luring him in relaxation.

then some thoughts popped into his head. it was because you kept fidgeting, your ass grazing his crotch that he couldn’t help but get hard. he’s aware that neither of you have the energy to fuck, but he’s also aware that fucking you to sleep will give you a good night’s rest.

so, he proposed a little compromise in his head.

“are you hard right now?” you snort as a way of teasing as you felt the print of his dick on the thin fabric of your oversized tee; though you’d be lying if you say this wasn’t turning you on. apologizing with voice already half slurred, you mutter, “sorry baby, i’d like to, but i’m sleepy.”

he sighs, the warm air of his breath hitting the nape of your neck. “you don’t have to move. will you let me take care of you?”

too tired to refuse, you comply. “i’m all yours.”

pinching on the garter of your panties, you aide him in pulling it down, then throwing it to the side to get it out of the way. he hoists your shirt up just enough for your boobs to flail out, the cool breeze of the ceiling fan creating a slight sting on your nipples.

popping his cock out of his shorts, you lifted your leg up to let him slip it in your cunt with ease. “you can’t make fun of me for being hard if you’re this wet, sweetheart.”

“shut up, you did it first.” your walls contracted around his thick cock, a small grunt wrenching out your throat from the slight burning stretch due to the lack of foreplay.

armin was stationary for a few minutes, warming himself up inside your little hole and appreciating the plush squeeze of your cunt. “this feels really nice, actually. ‘could stay like this all night.” you giggle.

your slick made a damp splotch on your inner thighs, keeping one of your legs bent up in the air while armin lazily dragged his cock in and out of you, his balls pressing up against your ass with a squelch! sound with each thrust.

“armin… ‘you think you can move a tad faster?” you ask, the weariness you had just a few minutes prior all gone now that you have a new goal of reaching your high.

he tilts your face backwards to look him in the eye, your leg hooking around his thigh from behind you, letting his cock slip through your folds, clit exposed and throbbing against the chilly air. you brought your hand down to allay the ache, slow, but hefty circles inciting mumbles of curses from you. “fuck, armin. you feel really good.” your lips were just half a millimeter from his, he leaned his slightly elevated head to kiss you, his hand kneading and fingers scissoring in between your nipple.

he parted with a slight smack sound, a gasp elicited from the both of you. “oh yeah, hah- fuck yeah. that’s it.” he threw his head back on the pillow, his hips pounding into your ass with more impact, lips nipping on the skin in between your jawline and neck.

each stroke against the ridges of your cunt was a step closer to your orgasm — he wasn’t rough at all, thrusts so gentle and soothing, his cock glistened with your slick, pooling and ringing on the base of his balls.

nearly choking on your saliva, you mewl, “i miss you. miss this.” his tight embrace kept you close to him, lips just right on the shell of your ear.

“miss you more. ‘i wanna stay like this forever.” armin was edging himself, he’s so painstakingly close; one more wedge of your pussy and he’d be a mess, concealing that by placing soft kisses on your shoulder.

your fingers frantically rubbed and pressed on your clit while encouraging him, “god, armin, fucking cum inside me.” those words immediately propelled him in the state of ecstasy, a curse with bated breath puffing against your skin as he flooded your hole full of his seed, some spilling and soiling the mattress beneath you.

with a few more languid thrusts, you writhe and came all over his cock, your arousal keeping him warm inside you. “thank you, baby.” you sigh, head relaxing back on the pillow, hand cupping your boyfriend’s cheek and prodding him into a teasing kiss, biting onto his bottom lip.

unwrapping your leg from his thigh, your legs squeezed him, dick refusing to pull out of you — not that you’re opposed to it.

“ ‘need to go to the restroom.” you poked his arm which trapped you in place.

“do it later.” his voice was already jaded, you could feel the wave of drowsiness crashing back over your worn out body.

sighing in comfort, you murmur. “ ‘kay.”